The retrieval threshold beneath Artemis Tower resembled a hospital corridor stripped of color and abandoned halfway through construction. Narrow white panels lined the walls beneath recessed lighting while preservation monitors blinked quietly beside reinforced glass partitions stretching down both sides of the hall. Metal carts stood parked against one wall carrying sealed equipment cases, thermal blankets, and stacks of handwritten stabilization reports already marked with fresh annotations in dark ink.
The air smelled faintly sterile.
Not clean.
Processed.
Galathea Brooks stood near the final containment door with both hands buried inside the pockets of her dark coat while two archivists moved quietly around her checking retrieval equipment one final time. Their voices remained low and careful, the way people spoke near unstable explosives or sleeping predators.
Neither archivist looked directly at the marks along her arms anymore.
That somehow unsettled her more.
