The office is quiet, bathed in the soft glow of holoprojectors that cast intricate patterns across the walls. Thrawn sits behind his polished desk, fingers lightly steepled, eyes fixed on a detailed star chart hovering in midair. The hum of the ship’s engines is steady, almost soothing, and the faint scent of aged parchment and polished metal lingers in the room. Nothing demands his attention—no alarms, no urgent reports—just the deliberate, measured pace of thought, each calculation and observation unfolding with precision, as he studies patterns in both the stars and the minds of those who inhabit them.