The law firm occupied the kind of building that erased personality on entry-- glass, steel, polished floors that reflected people back at themselves as cleaner, more acceptable versions.
Galathea Brooks stepped out of the elevator at precisely twelve fourteen, her badge tucked into her pocket instead of clipped to her blouse, as if denying affiliation with anything that could claim her.
She had not told anyone at Artemis she was leaving for lunch.
That alone would be noticed.
The receptionist glanced up, eyes flicking once over Galathea's posture, her clothes-- sharp, intentional, composed-- and then back down to the tablet. No smile. No friction. The kind of neutrality that meant this place already knows who you are.
The directory panel was mounted flush against the wall just before the inner offices-- names etched in restrained lettering, clean enough to disappear unless someone was looking for them.
Galathea wasn't.
Not until her eyes passed over it-- and stopped.
