The terrace held a different kind of silence--one that did not belong to Artemis.
Inside, every corridor shaped behavior. Conversations softened without instruction. Movement adjusted to invisible lines of control. Even pauses felt intentional, as though the building itself decided when stillness was appropriate.
Out here, nothing asked for permission. The night moved freely, wind slipping along the railings, brushing against skin without pattern or approval.
Galathea Brooks stepped into it and did not stop.
The glass doors sealed behind her with a soft, contained sound, cutting off the curated quiet of the gallery. For a moment, she remained near the threshold, not because she hesitated, but because she needed to feel the difference. The air here was colder, less obedient. It did not hold shape. It did not wait.
