The corridor to the administrative wing smelled of heated floor wax, fresh radiator paint, and ozone.
Administrator Finch walked with quick, silent steps across the green linoleum, his clipboard tucked beneath one elbow. He did not look like a jailer; he looked like a school registrar hurrying between committee rooms. Every twenty feet, brass conduit brackets held high-voltage lines running overhead, each labeled with red stenciled tape: PRIMARY INDUCTION BUS — SUB-LEVEL 2 FEEDER.
Mara walked three paces behind him. Her boots squeaked on the clean wax. Beside her, Luis kept his hand resting on the canvas strap of his satchel, his jaw set so hard that a tendon twitched beneath the stubble of his cheek. Gideon brought up the rear, watchful and empty-handed, his thumbs hooked into his belt loops.
Halfway down the hall, the plaster wall gave way to an expanse of double-paned industrial glass overlooking a two-story pit.
Finch paused by the railing, turning with a polite, practiced smile. “We usually show visiting stewards the central gallery first. Commander Venn believes transparency is the foundation of regional trust.”
Mara stepped to the glass and looked down.
The space below was sixty feet long, sunk eight feet into the limestone bedrock, lit by cold mercury-vapor tubes that cast no shadows. It was not a dungeon. It was laid out with the grim, immaculate geometry of a regional telephone switching exchange.
