The infirmary did not recover after the door opened.
It held.
That was worse.
The air did not shatter into panic or noise. No alarms rang. No one raised their voice. Everything remained contained-- clinical, measured, deliberate.
Which meant this was expected.
Or rehearsed.
Galathea Brooks stood beside the examination bed, her awareness sharpening to a fine, dangerous edge as the three men entered like they already belonged to the space.
The door opened.
Not violently.
Precisely.
Three men stepped inside, dressed in dark, tailored uniforms that bore no visible insignia-- but moved with the unmistakable coordination of trained personnel.
Not security.
Something higher.
The first one spoke. "Miss Brooks."
No greeting. No explanation.
Just identification.
Cael Alexander stepped forward immediately, placing himself between them and Galathea, his movement smooth enough to appear unremarkable-- if not for the way the room adjusted around him.
