Lin did not like the new floor.
Too quiet. Too smooth.
Data Integrity used to be a cramped space three levels down where old terminals ran warm enough to smell, the ceiling developed opinions during heavy rain, and someone always had a personal fan pointed at an overheating stack. People swore at their equipment with a familiarity that meant they were still paying attention.
Now it was glass walls and noise-cancelling panels and rows of identical consoles that never ran hot enough to register as anything.
The memo had called it progress.
Lin called it sterilization.
They scrolled through the registry's latest import batch.
Names moved up the screen.
