The penthouse door opened with the same quiet precision it always had. The lock released without resistance, the hinge moving smoothly, as if nothing in the world had changed.
Inside, the air was cool and still, carrying the faint trace of citrus and wood that never quite left the place. The glass walls reflected the city lights in soft, distant patterns, and the low lamps along the perimeter cast a warm glow over marble floors and clean-lined furniture.
Galathea Brooks stepped in and closed the door behind her.
The sound settled quickly, absorbed by the space. Nothing echoed. Nothing lingered.
She didn't pause at the entrance. Didn't look around to take it in. Her heels moved across the floor with quiet certainty, each step measured, familiar. This wasn't hesitation. This wasn't return.
This was recognition.
