The refuge hall occupied what had once been an archive training center several levels away from the collapse zone. Long folding tables had been pushed against reinforced concrete walls. Emergency lanterns cast pools of amber light across the room while portable generators hummed steadily somewhere behind a maintenance partition. Sleeping mats covered most of the floor. Crates labeled MEDICAL, WATER, and RATIONS sat open near the entrance.
People moved with purpose.
Archivists checked inventories. Emergency response teams carried supplies between stations. Someone distributed blankets. Someone else treated a wrist injury beneath a battery-powered lamp.
The underground collapse had not ended.
It had simply become a management problem.
Alistair stood near the center of the room with a tablet in one hand and three exhausted archivists waiting for instructions.
"Seal Corridor Seven completely," he said. "Nobody goes near the ritual sector until we know what is still standing."
