To walk into the office on a rainy Tuesday evening is to step into a sensory time capsule. The air is thick with the scent of lukewarm takeaway coffee and the faint, ozone tang of two-way radios. Beneath the flickering glare of a fluorescent tube, the controller—a man whose patience has been honed by a thousand Friday night shifts—manages a grid of glowing monitors and tangled wires that look like the command center for a mid-tier spy agency.
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