The shuttle bay looked like a second sunrise rising from the ground rather than the sky. Rows of silver shuttles sat in perfect lines with their noses angled toward the early light.
Each one had clear black markings showing which class it belonged to. The ramps were polished and clean, the kind of shine that only comes from being checked again and again.
Professors and supervisors walked between them with scanners, calling names, tapping wristbands, and giving short instructions that settled people the way good routines always do.
Our line moved when it was our turn. The ramp felt solid under our boots. Inside, the shuttle lights were soft white, bright enough to see everything clearly but not sharp enough to make anyone tense.
The seats unfolded the moment we stepped in. Backrests shifted to support us. Armrests settled at the right height.
