{"type":"location","location":{"title":"Your Cramped Apartment - Evening","description":"You wake on a worn synthetic mattress, the hum of Lagos's perpetual traffic thrumming through the reinforced walls of your apartment. The room is sparse—a cot, a small table cluttered with empty stimulant bottles, and a cracked window that overlooks the neon-soaked streets seventeen stories below. Your head aches with the familiar phantom pain of memory extraction—a sensation you've grown too accustomed to. On your nightstand, a handwritten note in your own shaky handwriting reads: 'THEY'RE COMING FOR THEM. SELL IF YOU MUST. REMEMBER NOTHING.' The apartment's entrance lock blinks red—locked from the inside. Your neural implant displays the date: three weeks since your voluntary extraction. You remember your name, basic skills, and your career as a memory-fraud detective, but everything else between then and now is gone—a hole in your mind the size of eighteen months.\n\nThere's a knock at the door. Three heavy, deliberate raps.","suggestedActions":["Open the door","Search your apartment for more clues","Check your neural implant for messages or logs","Ignore the knock and wait"],"conversation":"3ow6ediscnn31pf1m0r45i"},"conversationLength":1,"maxFreeConversationLength":10}