The executive floor outside the private elevator smelled faintly of printer toner, coffee, and expensive air freshener struggling against recycled ventilation. Afternoon light spilled through the tall glass walls lining Artemis Tower while keyboards clicked steadily across the bullpen beyond reception. Phones rang. Papers shuffled. Someone laughed too loudly near accounting before immediately lowering their voice again.
Normal.
The normalcy almost felt offensive now.
The private elevator doors slid open.
Galathea Brooks stepped out without slowing, one hand reaching immediately toward the severe ponytail at the back of her head. The elastic slipped free between her fingers and dark waves tumbled heavily over her shoulders, still faintly damp and tangled from sweat she never bothered washing away.
Several heads lifted automatically.
Then stayed lifted.
