The boardroom buzzed faintly with the steady hum of the air conditioner. Overhead, fluorescent lights cast their harsh white glow across the stiff, steel-lined chamber.
A long rectangular table dominated the center, set with half-drained mugs and a few reports. On the far wall, a digital map flickered, red and blue markers glowing across the territories of Duskworn.
Every surface seemed polished to sterility, every wall soundproofed to ensure no word discussed escaped.
The air carried a familiar tension, heavy enough that each shuffle of papers, each throat cleared, and each click of a pen felt amplified.
Seven figures sat along the table, dressed sharply in varying shades of former attire. All except one, the red-haired old man in a wheelchair at the edge, who leaned back with an air of indifference, staring lazily at the ceiling like he would rather be anywhere else than there.
