Restricted Maintenance Door

A reinforced panel set into the concrete wall of the abandoned station's lower corridors, its brushed steel frame scuffed from years of perfunctory use. The door’s threshold sits flush with the black-tiled floor, its single handle marked only by a yellowed sticker reading 'AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.' Flickering fluorescents above cast a dying glow that barely catches the grooves of a forced lock—the Doctor’s lockpick still wedged in the keyhole from his breach. Beyond the door, stale air rushes in from the restricted lower levels, carrying the scent of ozone and neglected machinery. The space between door and corridor is just wide enough to allow a single figure to slip through undetected, the kind of transitional point built for efficiency rather than comfort.