The brief respite in the Crew Lounge had provided a much-needed second wind for Dayat's weary group, yet the lingering warmth of the folding beds and the soft echoes of their conversation felt like a fading mirage the moment they stepped back into the frigid, metallic arteries of the bunker. With a single, weary wave of his hand, Dayat dismissed his manifested gear; the beds and sleeping bags dissolved into swirling particles of sapphire-purple light, leaving the lounge as cold and lifeless as a tomb once more.
They traversed a corridor that began to widen with a slow, geometric arrogance. If the previous maintenance shafts were claustrophobic veins choked with tangled cables, this new architecture was regal and symmetrical, governed by a logic of grand proportions. At the terminus of the hallway, a gargantuan hydraulic door slid open with a soundless, pressurized hiss, acting as if it had been holding its breath for ten thousand years, waiting specifically for their arrival.
