The rooftop above Artemis held onto the night in a way the streets below didn't.
Concrete still warm from the day, metal railings faintly humming with residual heat, a line of industrial lights along the perimeter casting a dull amber that never quite reached the corners.
The city stretched out beyond it-- glass, traffic, distant motion-- but the roof itself felt separate, like a space that had been left out of the rhythm on purpose.
Galathea Brooks stood near the edge. Not at it. Near it.
Her heels were in her hand, the cool grit of the concrete pressing through the thin soles of her stockings. The wind moved against her first before anything else settled-- the air sharp, carrying exhaust and something faintly metallic, like rain that hadn't arrived yet.
She did not remember walking there.
The realization came without panic. It placed itself quietly in her mind, the same way everything else had begun to settle since she opened her eyes.
She had been somewhere else.
