Twenty-seven. Twenty-seven pictures of different teenage girls line the confining concrete walls. Twenty-seven knives hang suspended from the ceiling, fourteen of which covered in a coat of crusting blood. For each bloody knife, there is a large, red slash through one of the twenty-seven portraits. Florescent light ricochets off polished torture devices. Every item aligned perfectly, weapon symmetrical to weapon- all part of an orderly madhouse. Abnormal serenity radiates throughout the room like lulling air, eerie silence filling the space. The pungent scent of rubbing alcohol coats the floor, yet in an isolated corner lays a mauled ear, missed in the midst of the sanitation. Shackles and padlocked doors ensure no viable escape. A desk sits in the corner, covered in a sea of papers, maps, and plans. Every aspect of the chamber screams crazy, insane serial killer, yet on the papers are fresh, tear stains.