UNIT HQ Outer Office

A cramped, utilitarian antechamber outside Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart’s inner sanctum, defined by its institutional necessity rather than comfort. Neutral-toned partitions and frosted glass panels diffuse the harsh fluorescent lighting, casting long shadows across bolted-down furniture where Sergeant and Crichton maintain their watch. Desks line the walls, their edges worn smooth by years of urgent briefings and rapid dictation. A single door, reinforced and locked tight, separates this space from the Brigadier’s inner sanctum—its heavy oak frame scarred by decades of coded knocks, its brass handle polished by desperate hands seeking decisive authority. The air bears the stale residue of too many simultaneous crises: coffee gone cold in chipped porcelain mugs, ozone from photocopiers papered with outdated warnings, and the faint metallic note of walkie-talkies left too long in standby. When the Second Doctor strides through the door, his presence cracks the room’s grudging composure with immediacy as the Sergeant’s objections dissolve against the Doctor’s unshakable assurance.