The recycled air tastes of old grease and burnt coils. Claustrophobic corridors twist between habitation units stacked to a dripping ceiling, each one exhaling the same stale heat and low hum of a life-support system running on borrowed time. Light is a sickly yellow, swallowed by the grime on every surface. A pipe groans, releasing a plume of condensation that mists the walkway, blurring the figures shuffling through it—ghosts in a machine built not to live in, but to be consumed by.