The city below looked disciplined from this height.
Lines of light stretched in orderly patterns, traffic folding into itself like something governed rather than lived.
Distance smoothed everything into compliance. From here, chaos behaved.
Galathea knew better.
She stood by the glass anyway, her palm resting flat against its cool surface, anchoring herself in something that did not respond. No hum pressed back into her skin. No quiet recognition waited beneath the material. It was just glass.
That absence unsettled her more than the noise ever had.
Behind her, Cael's penthouse remained exactly what it was meant to be-- controlled, curated, stripped of unpredictability.
Every object was placed with intention. Every surface carried purpose.
It did not react to her.
It did not adapt.
It did not… interfere.
"You should rest, sweetheart." Cael said, interrupting her thoughts,
