The hallway outside the Grand Assembly Dome hummed with soft blue light and manufactured calm — a calculated contrast to the frenzy inside. Echoes of celebration still vibrated through the metal-reinforced walls, distant whoops and cheers mixing with the high-pitched drone of reporters' questions.
Out here, the crowd's energy became ghostlike. Filtered. Distant.
Hernan walked alone.
The sliding doors hissed shut behind him, and a wave of sterile, simulated cool air kissed his skin. Screens lined the corridor like ceremonial banners — each one replaying the same looped footage: Captain Virex extending his hand, Rook Vale stepping forward, the handshake, the lift, the smile.
The moment the world now believed meant everything.
Hernan's own face stared back at him from every angle — heroic, calm, perfectly framed. The spotlight gleamed off his shoulders. His expression, polished over years of practiced anonymity, looked utterly authentic.
