The restoration office on Artemis Gallery floor smelled like printer toner, burnt coffee, and rain-damp wool coats. Only the workstations illuminated beneath rows of recessed ceiling lamps. The glow reflected softly against polished concrete floors and stacks of archived inventory folders waiting beside the restoration department terminals.
Outside the tall windows, rain crawled down the glass in thin silver trails while the city blurred into distant headlights and neon haze.
Galathea Brooks sat hunched over her workstation with one elbow propped against the desk and her cheek resting against her knuckles.
The restoration report open on her monitor had not changed in twenty-three minutes.
Neither had the cursor blinking halfway through an unfinished sentence.
A low ache pulsed behind her eyes.
The Codex had ruined her concentration.
