The heavy sliding door of the Crew Lounge hissed shut with a dull, resonant metallic thud that echoed briefly before being swallowed by the absolute, artificial silence of the chamber. Inside, the air was jarringly different from the humid, moss-laden atmosphere of the Root Way. It was bone-dry, sterile, and recycled—a scentless void that felt like a relic from another epoch.
Dayat exhaled a ragged breath, sliding his tactical backpack off his shoulders with a grunt of exhaustion. He leaned it against a cold, charcoal-gray composite panel. The rhythmic throbbing in his temples hadn't subsided; the "binary handshake" from the vault's entrance was still vibrating through his neural pathways, leaving behind a sharp, stinging residue of raw data.
