There is a small office.
In the office there is a massive oaken desk laden with teetering stacks of paper, most confined to trays or clipboards or manila folders or three-ring binders, some simply loose. Several cardboard boxes clustered near the desk hold their own stacks of paper, variously tall.
Behind the desk there is a high wingback chair, upholstered in once-glossy red-brown leather that has long since begun to crack and peel with age; and from within the chair, behind the stacks of paper, there is occasional motion and a quiet muttering voice. There is also, standing against the back wall, only just visible behind the top of the chair, a tall wooden cabinet, its doors engraved with abstract whorls.
In front of the desk, there is a much less fancy chair, in somewhat better condition; its upholstery is a faded green fabric, but it's clean and comfortable and not wearing through in any visible places.
Each of the four walls bears two warmly glowing light fixtures. None bears a door.
It may take some time for a visitor to be noticed.