The Artemis infirmary sat three floors beneath the main gallery behind an unmarked security door that looked more suited for electrical maintenance than medical care.
Galathea Brooks stood just inside the room with her arms folded tightly across her ribs, staring at the girl sleeping beneath white infirmary lights.
The place did not feel like part of an art gallery.
It felt like something Artemis preferred not to acknowledge existed.
Steel cabinets lined one wall beside locked medication drawers. A sink near the corner still carried faint black streaks from where somebody had tried scrubbing paint out of the basin twenty minutes earlier. Used gauze sat bundled inside a biohazard container beside stained towels that smelled faintly of antiseptic and oil varnish.
The copper smell still lingered beneath everything else.
That bothered her most.
Paint should not smell like blood after it left a body.
The girl shifted faintly beneath the blanket.
