Projection Area

This area within the lounge centers on the CET machine—an imposing console of metallic housing and flickering holoscreens, its components humming with low-level resonance against the ambient lounge chatter. Stott’s rushed movement erupts from this space, a narrow corridor behind it revealing spare cables and diagnostic panels bolted to the walls. Overhead lights cast angled shadows across the CET’s surface, mixing with the warm glow of the lounge’s seating beyond. Electronics’ faint ozone tang mixes with stale caffeine from the bar as Fisk’s revolver glints, his shout splitting the moment’s ease into abrupt tension.