The penthouse carried the strange stillness that only existed before dawn. Not silence exactly. Artemis never fully slept beneath the glass and steel wrapped around the upper floors. Elevators still moved somewhere below. Air systems still hummed softly behind the walls.
The city outside still breathed in distant headlights and muted sirens bleeding faintly through reinforced windows.
But the quiet inside the penthouse felt separate from all of it.
Contained.
The living area remained dim except for the low architectural lighting running along the baseboards and recessed ceiling edges. Shadows rested cleanly across marble floors and dark furniture. One of the pendant lights above the kitchen island had been left on earlier, casting a warm amber pool across polished stone counters and the untouched whiskey glass still sitting near the sink.
Galathea Brooks stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
The lock engaged automatically.
For a second, she stayed where she was.
