The lower archive corridor beneath Artemis Tower smelled like wet concrete, burned wiring, and dust disturbed too quickly. Emergency floodlights sat crooked along the damaged floor where support beams had partially collapsed several hours earlier, casting uneven amber light across broken preservation glass and abandoned transport carts left scattered during evacuation. Somewhere farther down the hall, maintenance crews worked behind temporary barricades while muffled voices echoed through exposed ventilation shafts overhead.
Galathea Brooks sat near the base of a cracked concrete pillar with both elbows resting loosely against her knees. Fine gray dust streaked the sleeves of her black coat while exhaustion settled heavily beneath her skin in slow, dragging waves. The marks along her arms hurt constantly now. Not sharply. Just enough to make every movement feel weighted.
