The room settled around her before she took her third step.
Galathea Brooks felt the calibration shift as the door sealed behind her-- not a sound, not a visible change, but a quiet rebalancing of space that suggested intent rather than automation. The air felt measured, the light softened to guide without exposing its source, and the silence carried structure.
This room had been prepared.
Not for display.
For her.
She did not move immediately. Instead, she let her awareness extend outward, mapping distance, placement, proportion. Three frames stood arranged with deliberate spacing, not hung but positioned as if they belonged to the room's logic rather than its design. Seating sat just off-center, angled to encourage proximity rather than symmetry.
And at the center of it--
A man.
Still, composed, already watching her.
Galathea approached slowly, not out of hesitation but control. Each step was measured, her posture balanced, her expression unreadable.
