The building looked the same.
Glass polished. Lights warm. Security stationed at their usual posts. The kind of place designed to feel permanent-- unchanged by the people who moved through it.
Galathea Brooks walked toward the entrance with her usual pace, her steps measured, her posture composed. Nothing in her movement suggested anything had shifted.
It should have opened.
It always did.
She lifted her card and tapped it against the sensor.
A soft, dull beep, no green light.
The door didn't move.
Galathea didn't frown but she also didn't hesitate and adjusted the angle slightly and tried again.
Another muted rejection. Still nothing.
A third attempt. Same result.
There was no frustration in her expression-- only recalibration. A quiet, internal correction of expectation.
'Of course.' She lowered the card.
Then turned toward the security desk.
The guard at the desk straightened slightly when she approached, already aware. Already prepared.
