The staircase ended in a circular chamber twenty meters across. The walls were smooth alloy, not concrete—polished to a mirror finish and etched with thousands of hair-thin lines that shimmered like dormant circuits under Nia’s headlamp. The air inside was dry, cool, almost sterile, carrying the faint metallic scent of ozone and chilled electronics. No dust. No decay. The space felt sealed against time itself.
