Cassian didn't spend the night chasing paper. He spent it changing the pack's reflexes.
By sunrise the service corridors had new locks, not obvious bolts that shouted fear, but quiet mechanisms placed where only those who used the routes daily would notice. The laundry wing had been reassigned under a different captain, and the soap that made Sable's stomach turn was gone before she woke, replaced with something milder that didn't carry the sharp bite of chemicals through stone. The clerk channels that routed "urgent directives" were tightened into fewer hands, and every hand that touched those seals had a second set of eyes on it now.
None of it looked like panic from the outside. It looked like routine. That was the point.
