Fresh out of the shower and suddenly wondering how long he had been drugged into a coma, potentially left unwashed in a psycho's storage, Sterling finally got dressed. It was far too late in the morning for him to be dressing just now, but a second day of waking up in the room that was apparently now his -- while still not worrying him as much as he thought it possibly worried others -- had rather rubber stamped 'REALITY' onto the situation. After a fashion. Clothed in black jeans, a button-up shirt with button-up cuffs, and all the trimmings like socks that came with being fully clothed, he ran a hand through damp hair and nudged his door open.
The room across the way was open. Had it been the day before? His brow furrowed as he fidgeted with button-up cuffs that he usually refused to wear, but even he recognised practicality occasionally -- and he stepped out into the hall. If that room wasn't a bedroom, then what was it? Also, who was in there? Anyone but Daphne unless she is a silent witness.
"It is strange," he agreed as he leaned against the doorframe, simultaneously fascinated and repulsed by the apparent artwork. Really, he was more interested in the person talking to it. "And more than a little creepy, but desirability tends to trump most other cards in the deck, I suppose." He paused. "Other than sentimental value." A shrug, and he tried not to care about the creepy thing or the phrase 'dead centre'. Middle. It was in the middle of the room.