Jackson’s Cabin

A compact but well-appointed stateroom tucked beneath the yacht’s eaves, its polished wood paneling recessed into the vessel’s steel ribs. The space is dominated by a desk cluttered with navigational charts and open schematics of the hybrid propulsion system, its edges frayed from hurried consultation. A single brass lamp casts a pool of golden light across a map of Earth’s northern latitudes, its glow sharpening the angles of Jackson’s angular features as he leans over a chart. The air carries the scent of aged whiskey from a half-empty glass, the sharp tang of salt spray seeping through the porthole’s inadequate seal, and the underlying metallic bite of the propulsion system’s coolant cycling through nearby piping. Shadows pool in the cabin’s corners, accentuating the tension between Jackson’s conspiratorial posture and the yacht’s sterile upper decks—this is not a place for officers of the Eternals, but a refuge for those who broker power in its shadows.