Morning at Artemis arrived with polished cruelty.
The sky outside was bright enough to feel fake, but the light inside the building stayed controlled—filtered through glass, shaped by architecture, never allowed to become warm. Galathea Brooks walked through the lobby like she hadn't slept, because she hadn't. Her skin still remembered the tunnel's coldness, the crate's smell, Cael Alexander's fingers on her wrist.
At 9:12AM, her phone buzzed as a message from 'Pit Boss' came in.
'Private office.'
No greeting. Like obedience was assumed.
Galathea stared at the message until her thumb ached from gripping the screen. She was already on the clock. Already in the building. Already caught in whatever this was.
'Fine,' she thought, heart tight. 'If he wants a confrontation in daylight, he gets one.'
She moved through staff corridors, badge unlocking doors with soft beeps that suddenly felt like permission being granted by something that knew her too well. The private office was deeper than Cael's regular one -- past administrative glass walls, past a keycard reader that required executive clearance. All of which, it seems, her ID badge can now access.
The door opened before she had the chance to knock. She paused at the realization that Cael was not the one who opened the door. It just... opened.
'Wind?' The thought distracted her.
Cael stood steps away from the door, crisp in a dark shirt with sleeves rolled, hair brushed up and neat, expression unreadable.
Some part of Galathea was irritated by this sight. 'He looked rested. How can someone who put someone else through trauma rest so soundly?' This, she kept to herself, not wanting to admit the effect of last night's confirmation had on her.
Galathea stepped inside without waiting to be invited, defiance doing the work sleep couldn't.
But... as much as she wanted to admonish Cael's treatment of her as of late, she flinched by the sound of the door closing and locking with a click. Hairs on her neck stood, her scalp prickled.
She didn't ask. She had the feeling she'll be getting an answer whether or not she asked, anyway.
She sighed into an exhale.
The room was quieter than his office had been last night -- no skyline view, no open glass. This space felt built for decisions. A long table. Two chairs. A wall-mounted monitor that took up half the room like a silent judge. A security console beneath it, LEDs blinking calmly.
Galathea's pulse kicked up. "What is all this this?"
Cael didn't answer immediately. He gestured toward the chair closest to the monitor. "Sit."
Galathea didn't sit. "No."
His gaze flicked to her feet, then back up. "If you're going to argue, do it with a better view."
That furthered her irritation towards him. Still, she sat hard, crossing her arms. "Congratulations. You've upgraded from creepy midnight tests to morning kidnapping." She said, sarcasm driving her tone.
Cael moved with controlled economy, tapping a code into the console. "Kidnapping? Oh... is it because no one knows you're here?" Then he smirked.
"How can no one know? There are cameras and keycard scanners everywhere." Galathea scoffed.
"Do you really think there'll be footage and access data off you heading to this private office? Do you wanna check?" Cael challenged.
"That's not comforting." She just rolled her eyes in an exhale.
"It's accurate," he said.
The monitor flickered, then filled with grainy black-and-white footage. A timestamp glowed in the corner: MONDAY 10:43AM The angle was from a ceiling camera on the exhibition floor.
Galathea's stomach tightened as she saw herself on screen -- clipboard in hand, standing in front of the surreal city painting.
She watched herself lean closer. Pause. Reach into her pocket.
Her phone appeared in her hand.
Galathea's throat went dry. "You pulled footage from --"
"From everywhere," Cael said calmly.
Her jaw clenched. "You're insane."
"Watch," he replied.
On screen, Galathea lifted her phone camera toward the canvas. The image fuzzed -- static crawling across the screen even in the security feed, as if the interference wasn't only in her device.
Then something happened that made Galathea's breath stop.
Her on-screen self flinched, stepping closer. Her free hand rose -- not to touch the painting, but hovering inches from it, fingers splayed like she was feeling heat from a fire.
A faint glow appeared.
Not on the canvas.
On her hand.
A thin, pale light -- almost like a reflection -- gathered between her fingers and the painting's surface.
Galathea sat perfectly still, every nerve screaming.
The glow intensified, threading like luminous smoke from the canvas toward her palm. The security camera struggled, pixels warping around the brightness, but it was there -- undeniable.
She watched herself draw the light out.
Like she was pulling thread from cloth.
The glow pooled in her hand. Her on-screen face twisted -- fear, awe, disbelief -- and then the light snapped back into the painting in a sudden flicker. The motion lights above her stuttered. The feed glitched.
And then Galathea on screen stumbled backward, clutching her chest like she'd been punched.
The footage ended.
The monitor went black.
Galathea stared at the blank screen as if it might explain itself if she waited long enough. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Cael's voice broke the silence. "That's why you felt static."
Galathea's chest rose sharply. "That's… edited."
"It isn't." Cael bore into her eyes.
"It can't be real," she snapped, panic spiking into anger because anger was easier to hold. "That's a lighting glitch. A camera artifact. Something --"
Cael leaned back against the table, watching her with calm patience that felt like domination. "You're going to say anything except the truth."
Galathea forced herself to look at him. "What truth? That I'm apparently a malfunctioning flashlight?"
Cael's mouth curved faintly. "Close."
Her hands clenched into fists in her lap. "Why show me this?"
"Because denial won't protect you," he said. "And because you can't unsee it."
Galathea's heartbeat hammered in her ears. The footage replayed behind her eyes -- her fingers lit like they were holding something alive.
"I didn't feel anything," she whispered, then hated how small it sounded. "I didn't -- I didn't do anything."
"You did," Cael said simply.
He stepped closer, stopping on the other side of the table. Not touching. Not invading. Just near enough that she felt the pressure of him, the gravity he carried like an expensive watch.
"Galathea," he said, and her name sounded different here -- less like a person, more like a key turning. "You are an Art Seer."
The words hit like a floor dropping out.
Galathea's laugh came out jagged. "That's not a thing."
"It is," Cael replied. "It's been a thing longer than this building."
She shook her head hard, as if motion could shake loose the reality. "No. No, I'm a coordinator. I file forms. I fix labels. I drink cheap coffee and hate my paycheck. I don't --"
"You pull light from paintings," Cael interrupted, voice still calm. "You wake systems that should be dormant. You hear what you shouldn't." He paused, then continued as he gestured to the door, "Heck, cameras hide or watch you as needed, doors open and close for you! Don't deny you didn't notice that just now."
Galathea's stomach churned. "I -- the dream I--"
Cael's gaze sharpened. "Ah... so what did it call you?"
Galathea went still.
That night's dream flashed through her—the city bending, the sky made of brushstrokes, the voice pressing meaning into her bones.
Seer.
Her throat tightened. She swallowed. "Nothing."
Cael's eyes didn't waver. "Lying is a habit. It won't help you here."
Galathea's nails dug into her palms. "If I admit it, it becomes real."
"It already is, sweetheart," Cael said softly.
The room felt too bright, too sharp. Reality had edges now, and she didn't trust any of them.
Cael turned away from her and walked toward a steel cabinet built into the wall. He keyed in a code she couldn't see. The lock clicked.
Galathea's pulse spiked again. "What are you doing?"
"Showing you why that from last night crate was yours," Cael replied.
He opened the cabinet door. Inside were archival slots, each containing wrapped canvases -- carefully preserved, labeled in tight handwriting. He slid one out with deliberate care and carried it to the table.
He unwrapped it slowly, as if drawing out the impact was part of the lesson.
The painting revealed beneath the cloth was older than anything on the public floor. The varnish had a subtle amber cast. The brushwork was confident, almost brutal in its precision.
It was a portrait.
A woman staring directly forward, expression unreadable, eyes dark with the kind of knowledge that didn't ask permission.
Her face was unmistakable.
Galathea's breath left her lungs.
The woman in the painting was her.
Not similar. Not uncanny. Exact.
Same mouth. Same cheekbones. Same stare she saw in the mirror when she was furious and trying not to show it.
Galathea stood so fast her chair scraped the floor. "That's… that's impossible." She felt a shiver run through her spine although her back started to heat up.
Cael watched her like he'd been waiting for this moment to land. His voice dropped, quieter now, almost reverent.
"She looks exactly like you," Cael said softly.