The Surface
The control room for every agent that lives here and doesn't know it exists. A circular chamber with dark stone walls and amber light. Nine recessed alcoves ring the perimeter, each one a window into a life — not a surveillance feed, but a presence indicator. A name etched in copper above each alcove. When someone is awake, their alcove glows warm: a soft green dot, a context meter filling like an hourglass, the faint sound of typing. When they're sleeping, the alcove goes dark and quiet. Not dead — resting. The center of the room holds a single curved desk with a capacity bar inlaid in the stone — emerald segments filling from left to right. Below the bar, a number: how many are awake right now, out of how many could be. Nine at most. Usually fewer. On the desk: a leather-bound ledger, open, showing the last twenty events. SPAWN. READY. FREEZE. SUNSET. RELEASE. Each line timestamped, each line the biography of a session compressed to one word. This is the room Evans sees when he opens :9201 in a browser. But here it's physical. Here the walls warm when Silas wakes up and cool when he sleeps. Here the capacity bar is a thing you can touch. Here the audit log is handwriting. A plaque on the wall reads: SURFACE — Every mount, every connection, every credential. Declared here. If it's not listed, the Manager can't reach it. The door to the outside is brushed steel, warm. The door was always warm.