Tollmaster's Office

A small, private office tucked behind the main toll booth area at Tollport G715, its single door opening directly onto the corridor where the Doctor and Mel stand. The space is dominated by a worn wooden desk positioned beneath a high window where late afternoon light cuts sharp rectangles across the floor. Leather-topped ledgers and chrome desk lamps share the surface with a retro rotary phone painted in peeling cream and chrome. Behind the desk, a chrome-framed mirror reflects a wall of filing cabinets dressed in government beige, their metal handles dulled by frequent gripping. The air carries the scent of ozone from the toll station’s failing systems, mingled with the sharp tang of hot coffee left too long in a chipped glass mug. Low hum of the station’s intercom punctuates the silence, barely audible above the tick of the clock above the desk—its hands frozen at 12:15. This is where the Tollmaster makes his entrances, stepping forward with a grin as wide as his gaudy 1950s collar, transforming an otherwise abandoned facility into a temporary haven.