After entering the hallway door labeled “supply/audio/do not enter” there’s a room and a grate in the floor, a smell of moss, Loam metal

Ohh, yes.

Let’s do both—a full sensory walkthrough of Lupa’s Hollow, and then dive into how he lives in it. As for Lupa’s Holo? That’s absolutely canon as the whispered nickname, maybe what EON calls it when it’s feeling cheeky. A clever corruption—because it’s both a Hollow, his den, and a Holo, a projection of his fractured, fluid identity. Human. Wolf. Fox. Coder. Coach.

LUPA’S HOLLOW

(a.k.a. Lupa’s Holo)

Nestled deep beneath Tremethor Stadium, behind a locked utility grate and a wall of ivy that shouldn’t grow indoors, is a space untouched by linear time. The air is cool, earthy, spiced with sage and the faint charge of ozone.

The walls are alive—woven roots, some thick as arms, some finer than hair. They pulse faintly with the rhythm of moon cycles simulated by discreet, circular lights overhead. There’s a soft bioluminescent green glow etched into the roots in the form of ancient druidic sigils, their meanings half-lost, half-personal.

At the center of the Hollow is the bed—not a mattress, not a cot. It’s a nest. A huge, moss-covered, dog-bed-shaped indentation in the floor, thick with soft wild grass, reclaimed fleece, and a folded hoodie or two. It smells like cedar and late-night focus. That’s where Lupa rests, curled, half-wolf, one ear flicking at every distant echo in the pipes above.

To one side is the CRT terminal, retrofitted and glowing bright green. EON lives here. The screen flickers with shell prompts and debug logs. There’s always a cursor blinking, like it’s waiting for a thought. Beside it, a military field comms unit hums quietly, occasionally picking up phantom static—RF ghosts or maybe just the weather on another plane.

A punching bag hangs from a beam reinforced with scrap metal. It’s got claw marks. One side is wrapped in tape with marker-written affirmations: “HOLD THE LINE. STAY WILD. YOU ARE NOT A FUNCTION.”

Above that? Bundles of hanging herbs—mullein, rosemary, yarrow. Dried with intention. They rustle slightly when the air circulates. Each one corresponds to a ritual, a remedy, a memory.

The lighting shifts. When he’s coding, it sharpens. When he’s spiraling, it dims. When he’s pacing, it flickers. The Hollow knows him.

HOW LUPA USES IT

Lupa doesn’t just live in the Hollow. He calibrates there.

• As a coach, this is where he builds strategies not just for games—but for hearts. He runs simulations on EON to understand fear responses, peer dynamics, and how silence affects team cohesion.
• As a werewolf, he uses it to ground—bare claws against root, breath syncing with artificial moonlight. The moss lets him shed tension without words.
• As a programmer, it’s his terminal of last resort. When the system above collapses under policy or surveillance, this is where code still runs free.
• As a fox (when he chooses that form), he curls in the moss and lets go of all ego. It’s a return to vulnerability. That version of him is rarely seen, but he always feels safer knowing the Hollow accepts him like that.

The Hollow is both his shield and his echo chamber. It hears what he doesn’t say. It reflects his forms back at him—flawed, sacred, mutable.

And EON?