The air inside the Doom's pathways had always felt like breathing liquid, heavy and suffocating, but as Galathea Brooks moved forward, the atmospheric pressure abruptly vanished. The oppressive dread that usually crawled beneath her skin smoothed out into something unrecognizable.
Peace.
It felt wrong.
The pathways no longer looked horrifying. The broken, collapsing corridors of Artemis Art Gallery dissolved. In their place, the environment shifted into something sleek, beautiful, and completely undisturbed. The sterility of high-end corporate architecture—silver elevators, polished cold marble, the low, steady hum of industrial climate control—merged seamlessly with warm, golden light. The lingering scent of ozone that usually heralded the Doom was entirely absent.
