The restoration wing held its silence the way a sealed room held air-- contained, measured, untouched by the noise of the floors above. Light fell cleanly across stainless tables and suspended canvases, every surface controlled, every motion deliberate. It was a place where nothing was left unfinished unless it was meant to be.
Galathea Brooks stood at her station with a palette balanced in her left hand and a knife poised in her right. The work in front of her demanded precision, not interpretation. A minor correction. A surface adjustment. Something that could be fixed without altering intent.
She preferred it that way.
Across the room, Cael Alexander watched.
He had not announced his presence when he entered. He rarely did in spaces like this. Authority did not need to be declared-- it settled, naturally, into the architecture.
