The archive core remained painfully bright beneath suspended preservation lights that pulsed softly overhead like artificial stars. White illumination reflected endlessly across polished black flooring while low mechanical hums vibrated through the reinforced chamber walls. Archivists continued moving calmly between projection terminals and containment consoles as though Galathea Brooks's entire world had not just collapsed quietly around her several seconds ago.
'Choose.'
The word still lingered in the room.
Cold.
Procedural.
Unbearably calm.
Galathea stood motionless near the center platform with her arms folded tightly against herself while the diamond ring on her left hand caught harsh archive light every time her fingers trembled.
Across from her, Alistair Triste remained silent.
Watching.
Waiting.
Like even he understood this was not a decision people survived unchanged.
Galathea swallowed hard before finally speaking. "How long does he have?"
