The hermetic seal of the P.A.C.I.F.I.C. Sector 1 Armory hissed shut, cutting off the low, vibrationless drone of the corridor.
Unlike the rusted, blood-stained weapon racks of the Warlord's faction in the deep earth, this room looked like a high-end, vacuum-sealed surgical theater. Everything was forged from chrome, white poly-glass, and blindingly bright synthetic polymers. The air did not smell of sweat or iron; it smelled exclusively of manufactured ozone and premium, frictionless machine oil.
Zeraya stood before a mirrored diagnostic station, locked into her sponsored corporate armor. It was sleek, aerodynamic, and entirely unscarred. The plating was optimized for camera angles rather than deflection.
