The morning arrived wrong.
Not late. Not rushed.
Wrong.
Galathea Brooks stepped into Artemis before the building had fully decided to wake. Lights lagged half a second behind motion. The air held that same thinness she'd carried out of the sub-basement-- the kind that made breathing feel like something borrowed instead of owned.
Her skin had quieted overnight.
Not settled.
Just… waiting.
She moved through the staff corridor without greeting anyone, without slowing, without performing the version of herself the building expected. Conversations softened as she passed, then sharpened behind her.
"Early start?"
"Or early finish?"
A low laugh followed.
"Must be nice."
Galathea didn't react. She adjusted her sleeve once, precise, controlled, as if the movement itself could anchor something still shifting beneath her skin.
The restoration wing opened ahead-- half-lit, unfinished, expectant.
She didn't enter.
She turned.
The motion was small.
It changed everything.
