The room is dark except for sickly pale moonlight that filters through the trees and into the chamber. There is a broken form huddled in the corner. The floor around him is littered with empty Bailey's bottles. A flash of light reflecting off hard steel above his head draws your attention. It is the sword of Damocles hanging precariously, a single hair between him and disaster. You can see it in his eyes. Bob is afraid, he is very afraid.