He stepped into the doorway and found himself in the kitchen of the house. 
Dim white-blue light-strips created pools of illumination and pockets of 
darkness. Peter saw quickly that everything had its place—a knife rack of
finished wood held a dozen blades so shiny he wondered if they’d ever been used,
plastic flowers (they gave off no heat) rested in a well-polished vase, The 
color scheme looked black to Peter’s thermographic eyes, but he guessed it was, in fact, blue—the chairs, the tiles on the
floor, the paper on the wall, all designed to complement one another. In its own 
way the room seemed as barren as the bare white apartment Peter lived in.