The lights in Cael's office were dim.
Not intentionally --Artemis always softened the lighting after midnight --but tonight the shadows felt deeper than usual. The gallery floor below had quieted hours ago. Security lights glowed faintly through the glass walls, illuminating empty corridors where expensive paintings slept behind climate-controlled glass.
Galathea Brooks sat on the couch near the window.
Her shoes were off.
One knee was pulled up toward her chest, her arms wrapped loosely around it as she stared at the city lights below.
From this height, the streets looked almost peaceful.
Traffic lights blinking.
Cars gliding through intersections.
People living lives that did not involve dissolving girls made of paint.
Behind her, Cael Alexander finished reading the final report from the research wing.
He set the tablet down on his desk with quiet precision.
Neither of them spoke for a while.
The silence stretched across the room.
Galathea didn't mind it.
