The main character of the piece crossed the floor of her flat, suddenly both English and female, or possibly Australian. She was sure it was one or the other. This was clearly a "flat," not an apartment. It might be a "walk-up." Hard to tell from in here, in the foyer. The flat was basically a small foyer with key pieces of furniture, and not much opening off it. A pair of cupboards to either side, one fitted up as a kitchen, the other a bath. "Hey!" she objected.
"Why can't it be proper accommodations?"
Fine. There's a trapdoor in the ceiling with a pull-down ladder. Leads to a quite well-appointed small mountain chalet. Classy - but I warn you if you go up there, your former life will be left behind.
"Suits me," she groused, grinning. "What's my name supposed to be, anyway? 'She'?"
"Sweet." A suspicious look crossed her face; Clothilde's face. "Am I naked?"
No, though I confess you are remarkably conventionally attractive. You're wearing a fucking CLOWN OUTFIT - except it's all black. No makeup, no wig, just the outfit - big roomy coverall, one of those big doily collars, big shoes, the whole bit. All black.
"Does it have pockets?"
Yes! It has pockets. In fact, quite a number of them sewn in, some of them quite cleverly-concealed.
"Anything interesting in?"
May be. Why don't you check?
A cross look. Gasp of exasperation. Her eyes swept up, saw the trap. There was a recessed handle. One springy step and a leap saw her catch and drag it down, landing lightly and ducking out of the way as the ladder slid out and down. As she stepped 'round and mounted the stair, a narrative interjection stopped her.
"What is it?" she brightened. "Anything interesting?"
There's some sort of kill-team or monster approaching up there.
She made a face. "You're pathetic." Skipping lightly, she ascended. The steps retracted as her weight left, and the trap swung shut.
None of it was considerable.
The door to the bath cupboard was open. The sink was antique, with hand soap pump, toothbrush holder, toothpaste tube and a small, decorative tin perched about its rounded surfaces. It was really a cute little flat. Lots of touches. With the door closed in here, the mirror was empty. Just a blank wall in it. There was a slight, squared discoloration where there used to be a dried flower under glass in a chunky wooden frame. Had she taken it with her? Stuffed in a clown-pocket?
She was gone.
Clothilde, her former life left behind. Somewhere away up there, some kill-team or monster is about to discover brief regret. No way to intervene or assist, or even narrate.
She'll be on first-person narrative by now.