The restoration wing did not breathe like the rest of Artemis.
It held its air.
Even the hum of the climate systems felt muted here-- flattened, as if sound itself had been pressed between glass and forgotten. Galathea Brooks moved through it without escort, without clearance checks, without resistance. That, more than anything, unsettled her.
Doors that should have required authorization slid open.
Lights brightened a fraction before she reached them.
The system wasn't responding to her anymore.
It was anticipating her.
Her heels made no echo on the polished floor. The silence wrapped too tightly around her steps, like something smoothing her passage, absorbing evidence of her presence.
She stopped just short of Bay 7.
There was no listing for Bay 7.
There never had been.
