The private elevator sat at the end of the CEO floor like it had always been there-- brushed steel doors flush against paneled walls, a control panel inset at shoulder height, its interface dark until recognized.
The overhead lighting was softer here, warmer than the rest of the corridor, as if the space had been designed to signal quiet authority rather than access.
Galathea Brooks stepped inside.
The cab was larger than necessary, mirrored on three sides, handrails polished to a dull shine from use. The air carried a neutral scent that didn't settle into anything distinct-- clean, controlled, forgettable. The doors slid closed behind her without resistance.
Her hand lifted toward the panel.
Before her fingers reached it, the elevator moved.
Not abruptly. No mechanical shift. Just a smooth descent, as if it had already received an instruction she hadn't given.
Her hand paused mid-air.
She didn't press anything.
