The next morning, the prototype room looked the same, but the rhythm was different.
There were clipboards now. A printed sign-in sheet on a metal board near the door. A sealed envelope taped beside it labeled ACCESS TOKENS — CONTROLLED in Victor's handwriting. A small strip of gaffer tape on the floor marking where visitors stopped before crossing into the clean zone.
Hana stood at the door with a tablet and a pen. She didn't let anyone drift in.
"Name, time, purpose," she said as Jun's engineers arrived.
One of them started to joke, then saw her face and stopped.
They signed.
They read the room rules posted beside the sink. Ten lines. No speeches.
No photos.
No external storage.
No runs without approved objective.
No runs without active logging and hash.
No unlogged tools.
No patient language.
No edits to software without ticket and review.
E-stop tested daily.
Consumables tracked.
If unsure, stop.
