The Artemis rooftop overlooked a city slowly relearning ordinary life.
Evening sunlight stretched across rooftops and glass towers, painting the recovering skyline in shades of gold and copper. Construction cranes stood frozen against the horizon while traffic flowed steadily through streets that, months ago, had been clogged with emergency vehicles and evacuation convoys. The rooftop itself felt peaceful. Stone pathways wound between flowerbeds and trimmed hedges. A small fountain murmured quietly near the center of the garden. The air carried the scent of blooming jasmine mixed with distant rain on concrete.
Galathea Brooks leaned against the rooftop railing.
A pair of gilded coffee cups rested beside her. Why Cael Alexander only ever has these ridiculously expensive wares in the penthouse, Galathea would never know.
The city spread endlessly below.
For the first time in years, there was nothing demanding her immediate attention.
No disasters.
No crises.
