Alistair Triste stood beside the terminal with his jacket discarded, his sleeves rolled tightly past his elbows as his dark eyes remained entirely fixed on the fluctuating environmental readings. The tiny zero-point-seven-gram discrepancy had refused to stabilize over the last twelve hours of continuous automated calibration, prompting him to order a total physical teardown.
Several junior conservators gathered near the secondary workstations, checking their individual tablets with quiet expressions of growing skepticism. They respected the strict structural hierarchy of the department, but taking apart a primary historical artifact over an almost invisible measurement felt excessive to everyone present.
One senior conservator adjusted his magnifying loupes, cleared his throat carefully to acknowledge the Director's absolute authority, and stepped closer to the primary table.
