The walk to Sublevel 9 wasn't long, but it felt longer when you didn't know why you'd been summoned.
Hernan kept his pace steady, hands loose at his sides, boots echoing against the sterile polymer floor. His field badge had been temporarily suspended for this visit, replaced by a disposable ID chip clipped to his collar. No gear. No wrist rig. Even his biometric access had been hardwired through surveillance routing.
They wanted him disarmed.
He'd agreed. It made it easier to pretend he wasn't a threat.
Two internal agents met him at the checkpoint — standard gray uniforms, no rank, no names. Silent. They scanned him with a molecular sweep, then wordlessly led him down a long, camera-free corridor to a single door at the end.
The door hissed open.
Inside: a steel-gray table, matte-black walls, a too-bright ceiling panel, and a pane of mirrored glass reflecting nothing. Hernan didn't need a briefing to know someone was watching. Always.
At the table sat Agent Dorne.
