The building breathed around him, a steady hum that sounded almost like a tired person talking in their sleep, and he refused to let it lull him into that same softness, so he called the room to heel instead, pulled the lights down to a practical glow, and opened a private channel that didn't exist on any org chart unless your name sat in a ledger older than the Association itself.
The glass above his desk flickered once or twice, then settled, and three indistinct figures took their places in the air—no polished faces, no crests, just silhouettes with patience in their posture; the holo was built to honor voices and timing, not presentation.
"Director," the first voice said—old, careful, choosing weight over volume the way a carpenter chooses a brace over a flourish. "You should be in bed."
"After the gate," he said, because it wasn't an excuse and it wasn't bravado; it was the plan, and he meant to stick to it.
