A regular, unremarkable corner of the bar. Smoke hangs low over a green felt table, and the clack of billiards balls masks quiet conversations. This is where you sit when you simply need a reliable witness to say you were elsewhere.
This is definitely not a ladder.
You slip down the steps expecting a hardened black market ring, but instead tumble into a warm, carpeted lounge filled with small, weeping mustelids drinking chamomile tea.