Gilda's question, a low rumble of pure, helpless frustration, hung in the silent, white room. A heavy, defeated silence was her only answer.
But while the others just stared at the massive, glowing wall of text, Pip's gut twisted tighter with every passing second. This wasn't just bureaucracy. This was worse. His rogue instincts screamed about it.
"Don't touch it," he hissed, his voice was low, sharp, and certain. "The form's not the danger. But the room is the trap. A high-level one."
Before anyone could argue, he was moving—pacing the tiny cell with the suspicion of a man who once survived a hallway lined entirely with poison darts. He checked the walls for hidden seams. He ran his hands across the floor, pressing gently for any pressure plates. Finally, he crouched before the stone bench, narrowing his eyes.
He circled it once. Twice. Then, with the caution of a priest approaching a demon idol to purify it , he tapped the bench with the toe of his boot.
