{"type":"location","location":{"title":"Your Office - Heimaey Counseling Center","description":"The afternoon light filters gray and ash-tinged through your office window, casting long shadows across worn furniture. Your desk is cluttered with patient files, half-empty coffee cups, and a framed photo of Heimaey before—before the eruption six months ago when the volcano split the earth and changed everything.\n\nOutside, you can hear the distant sound of waves against black sand beaches. The air still carries the faint smell of sulfur, though the volcanologists insist it's safe now. The government's \"safety protocols\" keep most visitors away, though you know the real reason runs deeper.\n\nYour last patient, Sigrun, gripped your hand so tightly her nails left marks. She whispered something urgent—something about what the volcano uncovered, about something that was supposed to stay buried. Then the words stopped coming. Like the others, she could only speak truth about yesterday. Everything about tomorrow became lies.\n\nYour appointment book sits open on your desk. The clock on the wall reads 4:47 PM. The town is quiet—too quiet for a Friday.\n\nA sealed envelope sits on your desk, addressed in shaky handwriting: \"THE COUNSELOR.\"","suggestedActions":["Open the sealed envelope on your desk","Review Sigrun's patient file in detail","Look out the window at the town below","Step outside and walk into town","Call a colleague at the clinic for information"],"conversation":"i2fnoum8m3hlgho5dxqah"},"conversationLength":1,"maxFreeConversationLength":10}