Dixon Hill's Private Investigator Office

A cramped, atmosphere‑heavy private‑eye office that functions as Picard’s holodeck refuge and the heart of a 1940s noir. A frosted glass door stamped with Dixon Hill’s name seals off the outside world; Venetian blinds slice dim light into gloomy bands while cigarette smoke hangs in the stagnant air. The room smells of old paper and cheap cologne, its battered desk and threadbare armchair framing tense transactions—hiring, threats, and edged humor. What begins as nostalgic escape hardens into a crucible of intimidation and agency when hulking clients press real danger into the simulated sanctum.