The containment chamber beneath Artemis Gallery smelled like hot metal, wet paint, and something rotting underneath industrial disinfectant.
Emergency lights strobed weakly overhead, turning the sealed workshop into pulses of white and shadow. Reinforced glass walls rattled inside their steel frames while warning alarms sputtered unevenly through damaged speakers somewhere deeper in the corridor.
Inside the containment chamber, the painting screamed.
Not constantly.
In bursts.
Like someone drowning between breaths.
Galathea Brooks stood frozen beside the observation panel with the Palette Knife vibrating hard in her hand. The silver blade hummed violently beneath the linen wrapping, pulling toward the canvas with ugly anticipation.
Beyond the fractured glass, the half-emerged painted girl writhed against the torn opening in the canvas while thick black pigment crawled over her shoulders like living tar.
And behind her--
Something moved.
Tall.
Wrong.
