The elevator clanked to a stop twenty meters below ground. The rusted cables above groaned like something exhaling its final breath. When the doors wheezed open, the stench of oxidized copper, dried ozone, and melted insulation poured out — the scent of forgotten circuitry and memory burn.
Dust danced like spectral ash, floating in columns of static air. Cables hung from the ceiling like severed veins. Panels blinked with a dying pulse, a ghost's heartbeat refusing to flatline. This place hadn't been touched in decades. But it had never stopped listening.
"This was Zodiac's first failover media node," Dekra murmured, stepping from the lift. "Before Ash Logic. Before Scorpio. This is where they broadcast counter-narratives during the first collapse. Controlled doubt before it became an art form."
Aya followed her, boots soft on the grated floor. "Why hasn't Scorpio gutted it?"
