Operations Center Hideout

A concealed inner chamber carved into the Operations Room’s bulkheads, its existence revealed only by the faint seam of a disguised panel. The space is little more than a widened alcove, its walls lined with spare tactical consoles bristling with disconnected jacks and flickering status screens set to minimum brightness. Two fold-out seats extend from the deck plating—narrow and unyielding—while a single overhead strip of dim red lighting bleeds through a perforated diffuser, throwing jagged shadows across blotched metal surfaces. The air hums with residual server noise and the chemical tang of overheated circuits, the silence punctuated only by the distant thrum of the room beyond. No insignia marks this bolt-hole; its anonymity is its only defense. The tight confines force Salateen and Peri into tense proximity, the metallic chair edges biting into arms and the ceiling’s low curve pressing down as their plan crystallizes under the shallow glow of emergency lighting.