The door to Hernan's quarters hissed open like a wound reluctantly parting.
He stepped inside without turning on the lights.
The room was clean, unnaturally so. Spartan in its arrangement: one cot, one steel desk, one wall-mounted interface panel, and nothing else. No decorations. No trophies. No past. It was a living space built by a man preparing not to be remembered.
He slid the lock behind him, waiting for the magnetic seal to catch with its usual second, quieter click. Then he moved toward the desk with a slow, deliberate pace, like someone rehearsing control. His muscles were tight from the Dorne briefing. His collar, despite the tailored fit, felt like it was slowly strangling him.
From beneath the desk, behind a false panel only he knew how to access, he retrieved a matte-black secure tablet — untagged, offline, unregistered. Not the Zodiac-issued dummy unit synced to tower surveillance. This was the real one. The one that told the truth.
