The Lounge had been designed to look comforting, almost luxurious enough to make people forget what had happened only minutes earlier.
Long tables stretched across the hall, filled with sweets, fruits, meat dishes, warm breads, roasted food, and desserts arranged with the same excess the Capital seemed to enjoy displaying at every opportunity. Trays were replaced the moment something emptied, and drones moved silently between tables carrying drinks and fresh plates as if the death of thirty-three participants had no connection at all to the calm atmosphere being offered now.
For many sector survivors, the food immediately became more important than dignity.
The moment permission to eat was understood—even though no one had formally announced it—many participants moved toward the tables and began eating with little restraint. Hunger won over caution quickly, because for most of them, even the feast earlier had not erased years of eating whatever could simply keep a person alive.
