The archive corridors beneath Artemis Tower carried the dry scent of preserved paper, cold concrete, and recycled air pushed endlessly through hidden vents behind the walls. Narrow recessed lights stretched across the ceiling in pale intervals, leaving long portions of the hallway submerged in shadow between pools of muted gold illumination. Thick preservation glass lined the right side of the corridor while sealed paintings rested behind temperature-controlled chambers guarded by discreet security panels and silent sensors.
Galathea Brooks walked alone through the archive corridors beneath Artemis Tower with both hands tucked inside the pockets of her coat.
Her boots echoed softly against polished concrete.
The marks beneath the skin of both arms felt unbearably heavy tonight. The sensation resembled exhaustion more than pain now, like invisible weight dragging steadily downward through muscle and bone every time she moved.
She should have stayed upstairs.
