Section 45D

This windowless corridor stretches narrow and unremarkable between the gleaming corridors of Paradise Towers, its walls scuffed with repeated scraping from security scanners. Fluorescent tubes buzz overhead, their cold glow reflecting off whitewashed concrete that never receives natural light. The far end leads to a bank of locked doors marked only with faded numbers, one of which bears a chipped sign reading '45D' in peeling yellow paint. Air vents push stale atmosphere through the space, carrying the scent of disinfectant and something metallic beneath. Door hinges creak under the weight of repeated searches, their protest underscored by the Chief Caretaker's amplified voice barking orders down the corridor. This is not a place where people linger—only where they are processed.