The room wasn't built for comfort.
It was built for containment — of sound, of emotion, of secrets.
Thick black walls smothered even the softest whisper. The floor, soft steel composite, absorbed impact. No clatter of boots. No echo. No distraction. Just sterile air, cold light, and the low murmur of deep-analysis processors humming like a nervous heart.
Four figures stood in a half-moon around the central table.
At the front, a high-resolution projection hung in silence. Hernan, mid-stride in District 3, arm extended in a calculated arc. Opposite him, the silhouette of a child — caught mid-motion in the half-second before impact.
Behind the still frame, the shadows seemed to lean in.
Commander Ryl stood to the side, arms folded, gaze fixed and unblinking. Her optic lens emitted a soft whine — not malfunction, but capture. Recording everything.
