The key card reader blinked green. Red. Green again—indecisive, like it wanted to negotiate what Lydia Ashworth was allowed to be today. A thin chime came from the metal box beside the door. Not her phone. Not anything in her pockets. The fort had its own voice, and it used it when it pleased. Limestone pressed in on both sides of the hallway, cold enough to bite through her coat. Dust clung to the back of her throat, mixed with that faint solvent sting that never left—as if the walls had soaked up turpentine years ago and decided to keep it. Thaddeus Callahan waited at a waist-high podium that looked like it had been set there yesterday and bolted down a century ago. Clipboard. Pen on a chain. Flag pin on his lapel, tucked close to his heart like a warning label. His eyes dropped to her badge. “Ashworth.” “Lydia Ashworth.” She kept her voice even. Flat. Names mattered in this place. They’d already proven how easily a name could get used without her. A smile tugged his mouth into something folksy that didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re early.” “I’m on time.” Her tote strap sawed at her shoulder. The case inside bumped her hip every step—thump, thump—like it was counting her nerves for her. Work. Not panic. Callahan slid the clipboard forward. The clip rasped against metal. “Sign in. Safety protocol. You know the drill.” She read the top sheet anyway. Access Hours. Escort Required. No Photography. No Unsupervised Contact with Collection Surfaces. The ink was a crisp black that looked wrong against stone this old. Her pen hovered over the line. “Before I sign,” Lydia murmured, “I need the contract addendum.” Callahan’s gaze lifted, slow as a gate swinging shut. “Addendum?” “Placard and catalog language.” She tapped the blank space where her name should’ve been, once, hard. “I want my byline in writing before I put my hands on the final surface.” The pause that followed didn’t settle; it leaned in. Callahan’s attention drifted over her gloves, the scuffed case, the chipped nail polish she’d meant to fix and hadn’t. “Trust handles interpretive text.” “Cool.” Lydia nodded once. Small. Controlled. “Then the Trust can print my name correctly. Ahead of time.” Somewhere deeper in the fort, a heavy thud rolled through the stone. A drum. Practice. Even empty, the place rehearsed for an audience. Callahan clicked the chained pen against the clipboard edge. “We’ve got oversight requirements, Ashworth. Standard after… incidents.” There it was. A leash slipped on with a smile. Lydia’s jaw tightened, not enough to show teeth. She’d learned that trick in courtrooms and conference rooms—how to go still so no one could write a feeling onto your face. “Oversight’s fine,” she said. “Ambiguity isn’t.” His smile widened just a fraction, like he was testing a lock. If she laughed, she’d be easy. If she didn’t— She didn’t. “You’ll get what you need,” he told her, voice pleasantly final. “Once you’re logged. Procedure first.” The lights hummed overhead, a faint tremor in the fixtures. Lydia signed anyway. She needed the door open. She needed the job. She needed her name on something that couldn’t be edited out later. Callahan watched the ink dry like it had confessed to something. “Good.” He swiped his own card. The lock clunked, heavy and satisfied. “This way.” Past the threshold, the corridor pinched narrow, then widened, then narrowed again, as if the architecture couldn’t commit. White tape ran along the floor in straight, officious lines: boundaries. Distance markers. A museum’s rules laid over a fort’s bones. Each footstep echoed inward. The ring drew her along its curve, coaxing her closer to the center. The temperature dropped another degree. Static prickled at her fingertips inside the gloves, tiny bites at the pads. Yesterday she’d had one hour under supervision. Enough to confirm the flaking varnish. Enough to hear the impossible. Maris D—. Don’t finish it. She swallowed the name before it could form. Let it sit in her chest like a stone. Callahan’s boots beat a steady rhythm against the floor. He didn’t look back. Didn’t have to. He moved like the corridor belonged to him. A door waited at the end—too thick, too earnest. Metal edges. Keypad. Red sticker: COLLECTIONS ACCESS—AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Another beneath it: RECORD YOUR ENTRY IN THE LOGBOOK. Callahan punched in a code. Beep. The door eased open with a sigh of colder air. Inside, harsh lights snapped everything into clarity. A conservation workroom: tables along one wall, shelving units stacked with boxes and foam supports, a rolling cart with a humidity monitor glowing green like a tiny verdict. And behind a stanchion and a low alarm strip sat the Founding Portrait on an easel. Colonial finery. Hand resting on a document. Eyes aimed just past the viewer, already certain of what you were. Fresh varnish caught the lights and held them. Too glossy. Too alive. Lydia’s gaze tracked the shine where it tightened near the center, as if the surface were holding its breath. Her nerves remembered yesterday. Cold, electric. Callahan gestured at a side table. “Set up. Log everything.” “I need five minutes alone with it.” Lydia opened her case. The familiar scent rose—cotton swabs, capped solvents, tissue-wrapped loupe—and her shoulders loosened by a millimeter. “Noninvasive. Raking light. Humidity reading. I’ll stay behind the markers.” Callahan didn’t budge. “Not an option.” “Why.” He tipped his chin toward the corner. A camera, half-hidden. Tiny red dot. “Protocol. Also, liability.” Lydia’s eyes slid to the red light. Watching. Recording. Or pretending to. “I’m not asking to lick it,” she muttered. “I’m asking for solitude. Oversight can stand outside the door.” “Oversight stays inside the room.” She set up anyway. Raking light on the table. Beam aimed across the canvas without crossing the tape. The glow slid over varnish and raised every ridge and dip into relief. Craquelure patterns—older than the top layer. And beneath that— Not a crack. A seam. Her throat tightened. She kept her breathing quiet, careful, like the room might hear her noticing. Callahan cleared his throat. “We also have an independent reviewer joining later today. Dr. Kowalski.” Lydia’s hand paused over the loupe. Elena Kowalski. Of course. Her rival. Her mirror. The woman who could smile over a lab bench and steal a discovery without smudging her lipstick. “Neat.” Lydia didn’t look up. “She’ll document your process,” Callahan went on. “For transparency.” “Transparency’s cute when it goes both ways.” Lydia adjusted the light; glare flared, then softened. “I’ll want her report in full.” Callahan’s shrug was practiced. “We’ll see what can be shared.” We’ll see. Translation: you get what we decide. Lydia lifted the loupe to her eye. Canvas fibers sharpened. Varnish layer. Paint film. The top coat looked modern—not last week, not last month. Somewhere in between. Age-ambiguous. Wrong. The room’s hum deepened, a subtle drop in pitch like a throat clearing. Her fingertips buzzed harder. Callahan leaned against a cabinet, casual in a way that wasn’t casual at all. He occupied space without touching anything, and the implication sat between them: we’re watching. Lydia forced her attention into the work. Measurements. Notes. Keep it clean. Keep it boring. Nobody could call her unstable if she stayed professional. Notebook open. Pen down. Varnish: glossy, inconsistent thickness. Tacky at central zone. Possible synthetic resin over historic coat. Monitor reaction to humidity changes. The pen scratched. The paper stayed white. Everything normal. Then the varnish tightened its shine—an almost imperceptible shift, like a surface reacting to a body leaning too close. A whisper skimmed her ear. Not from behind her. Not from Callahan. From the wet sheen itself, from the strip she’d treated yesterday near the edge. A room full of people. A hand on a book. Ink drying too fast. A voice—female, urgent—pressing a name into the air like it could anchor reality. “Brandt.” Lydia’s pen stopped. The nib tore a tiny hole in the page. Celia Brandt. Her old mentor. Recommendation letters, careful praise—then silence when the scandal hit. The last conversation came back in a flash of fluorescent light and a quiet voice: *I can’t explain it.* Lydia’s mouth went dry. Iron coated her tongue, sharp and sudden, as if she’d bitten her lip. The whisper didn’t offer facts. It offered sensation: a pledge being made, witnessed, sealed. Her pulse knocked once in her throat. Callahan’s voice cut through. “You okay, Ashworth?” “My hands do that when a room’s trying to turn me into a headline.” Lydia made it sound like a joke. Dry. Disposable. Her glove hid the tremor, but the numbness was already creeping into her fingers, the pads going dull like someone had turned down the volume on touch. Callahan pushed off the cabinet. “We’re not here to—” “Sure.” She capped her pen. Click. “If the unveiling date is fixed, then my access hours have to be.” His eyebrows jumped. “Unveiling’s set. Anniversary weekend.” “Then I’ll need early mornings and at least one evening slot.” Lydia kept her eyes on the canvas. Don’t look at him. Don’t give him anything to use. “Varnish cure times don’t care about committees.” He let out a sound that wanted to be a chuckle. “We’ll accommodate within reason.” “Define reason.” Callahan’s gaze flicked to the portrait, then to the logbook. “Reason is security. You work during posted hours. With an escort.” Lydia flexed her hand, trying to wake sensation. The numbness crawled up her thumb. “I’m going to do a tiny sheen test,” she said. “Reversible. Existing varnish edge. Fully documented.” Callahan nodded once. “Log it.” She laid out her tools with surgical care. Cotton swab. Small vial. A conservative mixture prepared for surface unification—nothing that would penetrate. Her brain supplied the approved reasons. The work. The commission. Reputation. The real reason sat underneath, cold and heavy: she did it to listen. The swab touched the varnish edge. Tacky pull. The surface resisted, like it wanted to keep her. A cold-electric snap raced up her wrist. Fast. Sharp. Her fingers went numb in a single ugly blink, and the swab slipped a fraction before she caught it with her other hand—palms hovering close, never crossing the tape. Professional. Controlled. She dabbed the smallest possible amount. Barely a kiss. The varnish brightened a hair. And the voice came back, angled differently now. Candlelight and modern fluorescents at once. Two eras layered wrong, like overpaint that hadn’t bothered to blend. Someone kneeling. Someone above them holding a phone up, recording. A promise demanded. A heartbeat slowing. “Say it,” the voice rasped. “Say it on camera. So it’s… real.” The word *camera* cut through her gut like glass. Lydia’s stomach clenched, hard enough to pull her shoulders forward. The room narrowed to the wet line beneath her swab. “Don’t—” The voice tried to climb back up and broke on static. “Don’t finish—” Crackle. Like electricity arcing. Then nothing. Lydia lifted the swab away. For a second her glove felt tacky against the air, then released. The buzzing remained, as if her nerves didn’t believe she’d stopped touching. Callahan stepped closer—still behind the tape—close enough that his shadow edged into her workspace. “You’re shaking.” “Solvent fumes.” Lydia didn’t look up. “And cold.” His eyes swept the room as if he wanted to accuse it. He didn’t. Not with the camera there. Not on record. “Take five. Hydrate. We have standards.” Standards. Control, dressed up like care. She nodded and logged the test with slow, cramped handwriting. Her letters leaned wrong, as if her hand had forgotten her habits. When she closed the book, the paper edge brushed her glove and felt damp-cold, like it had been stored against ice. Callahan held the door. “Staff room’s down the corridor. Approved space.” Approved. Like comfort needed permission. Lydia packed her swabs with hands that didn’t quite belong to her. The cold-electric tremor pulsed once more, then eased off. She kept her face neutral. The fort loved reactions. In the corridor, the drum practice thudded again. Each beat landed in her teeth. Halfway to the staff room, the air warmed a fraction and the ring loosened as they moved outward. The buzzing didn’t stop; it just dimmed, like a switch she didn’t control. Callahan stopped at a door with a laminated sign: STAFF ONLY—PLEASE SIGN IN. Another clipboard. Another chained pen. Lydia signed. Again. Inside, a radiator ticked steadily. Ordinary. Blessfully so. The room smelled like instant coffee and microwaved leftovers. Plastic table, mismatched chairs, a kitchenette with a hot plate and a crock pot. Sofia Reyes stood at the counter with her sleeves pushed up, steam fogging the window over the sink. She looked up, took one glance at Lydia, and her expression sharpened. “Girl,” Sofia barked, already grabbing a bowl, “you look like you just licked a battery. Sit. Sit, m’ija. Don’t argue.” Lydia let herself fold into a chair. It didn’t creak. The normalcy hit her like a blanket tossed over shaking shoulders. Sofia ladled soup—thick, brownish-red, stew-like—then slapped buttered bread beside it. Butter melted into the crust in glossy rivulets. Steam warmed Lydia’s face. Her glasses fogged immediately. She pulled them off with clumsy fingers, wiped them on her sleeve, blinking at the blur. A ceramic mug slid into her hands. Tea. Heat seeped into her palms and sank into numb fingertips like a slow rescue. “Drink,” Sofia ordered. “Before you pass out and I gotta do paperwork. I hate paperwork.” Lydia wrapped both hands around the mug. Warmth made her fingers ache, the way numb nerves complain when they wake. “Thanks.” Sofia leaned on the counter, eyes narrowed. “Callahan giving you his ‘just following orders’ routine?” “The deluxe version.” Lydia sipped. The tea was black and too sweet. It still grounded her. Sofia snorted. “That man loves a clipboard. Probably sleeps with one.” Soup. Heat. Salt. Cumin. The spoon clicked against the bowl in a steady rhythm, and Lydia’s shoulders dropped without asking permission. The whispers didn’t vanish, but they slid farther away, like a radio turned down in another room. Even the building’s hum felt quieter in here. Sofia poured herself coffee from a stained carafe and grimaced at the first sip. “So. How’s your fancy painting? Still haunted?” Lydia kept her spoon moving. “It’s… complicated.” “Mm-hmm.” Sofia’s eyes stayed on Lydia’s hands. “That’s what people say when something’s trying to eat them.” “This coffee’s trash,” she added, as if that settled the universe. A laugh tried to climb out of Lydia’s chest. She swallowed it before it could. Too human. Too loud. Sofia dropped into the chair across from her, elbows on the table. “You should’ve seen the ‘patriot’ volunteers earlier. Marching around like they own the place. Practicing their little drum thing. Like it’s gonna pay their rent.” “That’s what the gala’s for.” Lydia kept it light. Sofia’s gaze sharpened. “Yeah. For them. Not for us.” Lydia tore bread; butter slicked her fingers. The warmth helped her grip, though the numbness still lingered at the tips. She breathed in once, slow, and shifted the topic like she was asking about solvent brands. “Who signs off on placard text—curation or the anniversary committee?” Sofia’s mouth twisted. “Depends who’s feeling important that day. Beatrice Castellano acts like it’s her personal diary.” “Beatrice.” Lydia kept her voice neutral. Her stomach didn’t cooperate. Sofia leaned in, voice lowered but not quite a whisper. “Look. They’ll smile at you. Call you ‘our conservator.’ Then they’ll cut your name down to ‘work performed’ in a footnote. They do it to everybody.” Lydia’s fingers tightened around the mug. Warm ceramic. A small anchor. “Not this time.” Something softened in Sofia’s eyes, just a little. “Okay. But play it smart.” Lydia nodded. “Where do you keep the condition logbooks? I’d rather match their terminology than fight it.” Sofia huffed. “Archive office. Locked, of course. Beaumont keeps the keys half the time like he’s married to them.” “Beaumont.” Lydia tasted the name. Sofia snapped a plastic stirrer in half. “He’s always quoting letters. Like it’s normal conversation.” Her eyes darted to the door. “You didn’t hear it from me.” “I won’t.” The words came out rougher than Lydia meant. She cleared her throat. “I’m not here to make you a target.” Sofia’s laugh was short and humorless. “M’ija, I been a target since I was fifteen.” Lydia’s spoon paused. Sofia’s brother—vanished. The town’s favorite erasure. Lydia let the question sit, unasked. Not yet. Not with a sign-in sheet on the door. Instead: “Callahan says an independent reviewer’s coming. Elena Kowalski.” Sofia rolled her eyes so hard it looked like exercise. “Another suit with a degree. Great.” “She’s… not a suit.” Lydia rubbed her fingertips together, trying to coax sensation back. The numbness pushed back like stubborn clay. “She’s a scientist. She’ll act like I’m a rumor.” Sofia leaned back, arms crossed. “Then show her you’re real. Not the story they tell.” Tea warmed Lydia’s throat. Soup settled in her stomach, heavy in a way that made her steadier. She ate slower, letting heat soak into her hands and wrists until the tremor eased into something manageable. Sofia watched her get through half the bowl, then tapped the table twice. “You go back in there, you don’t let them rush you. You hear me? That painting’s been there forever. It can wait.” Forever. The word pinched. Lydia swallowed. Nothing lasted forever. Not paint. Not stories. Not people. “I’m supposed to finish it.” The sentence tasted borrowed, like she’d repeated someone else’s line from a page she hadn’t agreed to read. Sofia held her gaze. “Supposed to. Sure.” Silence sat between them, thick with things neither of them could say in a room that required sign-ins. Lydia wiped her mouth, slid her glasses back on, and the world snapped into focus again. Ordinary. Warm. Safe, in a small stolen way. She stood. Her fingers still buzzed faintly. “Thanks for the food.” Sofia waved her off. “Just don’t die in my hallway, okay? I got a kid to pick up later. I can’t be doing ghost drama.” Lydia’s mouth twitched. “No promises.” Sofia pointed at her with the coffee cup. “Promises. Don’t start with that.” Outside, the corridor bit cold again. The ring tightened as Lydia headed inward, like a circuit closing. Callahan waited where she’d left him, posture unchanged. “You good?” “Functional.” Lydia adjusted her tote strap. The kit knocked her hip. Thump. “I need copies of all prior condition reports and conservation notes from the last five years. Also the unveiling program draft.” Callahan blinked once. “Those are archival documents.” “I’m not asking to take them home.” Her tone stayed even. Professional. “I’m asking to see them. Conservation notes have to align with public interpretation.” His mouth tightened. “You can review on-site. Scheduled. With supervision.” “Fine.” Lydia nodded. “Put it on the calendar today.” Annoyance flickered across his face—quick, gone—but she’d hit something tender. Back in the workroom, the lights hummed louder, as if the room drew more current than the hall. The portrait waited in its glossy patience. Someone stood at the far table now, back turned, lining up sample vials with neat precision. Dark hair twisted up. White lab coat over clothes too crisp for this damp place. Elena Kowalski turned. Her smile arrived first—polished, restrained, meant to win quietly. “Lydia Ashworth.” “Elena Kowalski.” Lydia didn’t offer a hand. Her fingertips still buzzed, and she wasn’t interested in testing what her touch did to people. “Didn’t know you were on the Trust payroll.” “Independent reviewer.” Elena clicked the words into place. “Paid by the Trust, yes. The report is mine.” “Good.” Lydia held her gaze. “Then you won’t mind me requesting it in full.” Elena’s eyes flicked to Callahan and back. “We’ll follow protocol.” Callahan gestured toward the logbook. “Kowalski observes. Ashworth logs.” Elena opened a small case. Instruments gleamed under the harsh light: FTIR swabs, tiny slides, a handheld microscope. Lydia’s stomach tightened—not jealousy, not exactly. More like the grad-school reflex: prove yourself or disappear. She opened her own kit. Tools laid out with deliberate care. Each motion took more concentration than it should. The numbness hadn’t fully gone. Elena watched her hands. She always had. Hands didn’t lie even when mouths did. “Any initial observations?” Elena’s tone was precise, slightly formal. Lydia angled the raking light. The beam slid across the canvas. The varnish flared glossy, then tightened again near the center. “Top varnish isn’t behaving like a stable historic resin.” She kept it short. Clean. “There’s a tacky zone in the central passage.” Elena edged closer to the tape, careful. “Tackiness can be environmental.” “Sure.” Lydia didn’t look away from the surface. “Or it can be an additive. Or an incomplete cure. Or something applied too recently.” Elena’s nostrils flared slightly, like she could smell the difference. “You applied new varnish yesterday.” “A strip.” Lydia’s jaw locked. “Stabilization. Logged. Reversible.” “I’ll want solvent ratios.” “You’ll get them.” Lydia glanced at Callahan. “Assuming I’m allowed to share my own notes.” Callahan’s smile returned, faint and pleased. “We want collaboration.” Lydia gave him nothing back. She lifted the loupe to the seam again. The layered wrongness showed itself—two eras pressed together, refusing to blend. The lights flickered once. Not enough to alarm anyone else. Enough to make the varnish look like it moved. Buzzing crawled under her gloves. The closer she leaned toward the center, the worse it got. Cold electricity licking at her nerves. Elena’s voice softened. “Your hand tremor.” Lydia’s fingers curled into a fist at her side. “Old injury. Comes and goes.” Elena’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t look convinced. She also didn’t press—yet. Lydia reached for a cotton swab, then stopped. She didn’t need to touch again. She shouldn’t. Career hunger surged anyway. This commission could fix her life: a placard byline, catalog credit, grants, stability. Proof she wasn’t the scandal headline. She could finish the painting. She could be seen. And the voice had begged her not to. Lydia set the swab down, untouched. Elena noticed, of course. “Not proceeding?” “Not until I have the interpretive text in writing.” Lydia’s voice stayed level. “Placard and catalog language. And access hours locked.” Callahan exhaled through his nose. “Ashworth—” “I’m not being difficult.” Lydia cut him off, then sanded the edge down before it turned into an accusation. “This is standard ethical attribution. You’re unveiling an object restored under my hand. That’s public record.” A smooth voice drifted in from the doorway before the man did. “Public record is a tender thing, Ms. Ashworth. It bruises easily.” Cornelius Beaumont stepped in like he belonged to the room more than the paint did. Suit jacket. Pocket square. Face built for portraits—pleasant lines, careful eyes. Elena straightened. Callahan squared his shoulders. Even the room seemed to sharpen, like it recognized him. Lydia kept her hands still at her sides. The buzzing didn’t care. Beaumont smiled at her the way you’d greet an honored guest you meant to seat far from the head of the table. “Welcome properly. We’re grateful for your expertise.” “Then put my name on it.” His smile didn’t falter. “We always credit our collaborators.” “Collaborator.” Lydia let the word sit there. Soft. Convenient. “That’s gentle language for hard work.” Beaumont stepped toward the portrait, stopped at the tape, and didn’t bother to look at the painting. His attention stayed on Lydia. “A community artifact does not belong to one hand.” “It does when that hand does the work.” Lydia flexed her fingers; the gloves creaked. “I’m not asking to own it. I’m asking to be accurately attributed.” Beaumont’s gaze flicked—Callahan, Elena, back to Lydia—triangulating the room in a blink. “Accuracy is our shared value,” he murmured. “However, placard language is standardized. The gala program goes to print soon. Timing is—” “Fixed.” Lydia kept her voice calm. “So my access hours have to be.” Callahan’s jaw worked once. Beaumont held Lydia’s eyes a beat longer, measuring how much pressure she could take before she broke. She didn’t blink. His smile dimmed by a shade. “We’ll find a way that honors both conservation ethics and institutional consistency.” Institutional consistency. Another spell. Lydia nodded without agreeing. “I need to review the standardized language today.” “Of course.” Beaumont’s palms turned up, all openness and no risk. “On-site.” “And I need the addendum that specifies my credit.” Pins and needles tingled under her gloves. “In writing.” Beaumont tilted his head. “Ms. Ashworth—are you concerned about perception?” Velvet question. Soft edges. He wasn’t asking about the placard. He was touching the scar he knew she carried: the old story, the old headline. Lydia’s teeth pressed together hard enough to ache. “I’m concerned about accuracy. Perception follows.” “Naturally.” Beaumont’s voice warmed again. “We all want to be seen correctly.” *We all.* Always plural. Always diffusing responsibility until it vanished. Lydia looked at the portrait. The varnish held the light like it wanted to keep it. The center seemed to pull brightness inward, drawing the eye deeper. Don’t finish it. She’d promised herself she would. That had been the plan that got her here. A new plan clicked into place anyway—quiet, deliberate. She could stabilize. Document. Delay. Ethics as cover. Slow the completion without triggering an immediate lockout. Lydia lifted her chin. “Noninvasive examination only today. No new varnish. No unifying sheen.” She met Beaumont’s eyes. “Not without written credit language.” Elena’s gaze flicked to Beaumont, then back. Something tightened at the corner of her mouth—almost respect—then smoothed away under professionalism. “That is… cautious.” “Cautious keeps things real.” Lydia turned back to the canvas. Beaumont’s smile remained. His eyes cooled. “Then we’ll schedule additional hours within protocol.” “And I need the condition reports,” Lydia added. “All of them.” Callahan shifted, boots scraping stone. “We can arrange supervised archive access.” “Today.” Beaumont’s gaze dropped to Lydia’s gloved fingers. The smallest pause. A notice. A note taken. “Of course,” he murmured. “We want you at your best for the unveiling.” Unveiling slid under her skin like a draft under a door. From somewhere deeper, the drums thudded again—closer to the center now, as if attention itself was marching into position. Lydia adjusted the raking light. The beam slid across the fresh varnish strip she’d applied earlier. The shine tightened, anticipatory. She didn’t touch. The whisper came anyway, thin as breath against glass. Not a fact. A sensation of ink drying, a hand shaking, a voice forced steady. “Celia Brandt,” it breathed. This time it sounded like someone speaking into a microphone. Like a name entered into record. Buzzing hit hard enough to sting. Cold electricity crawled up her wrist, hungry. Behind her, Beaumont spoke to Callahan in a low tone, meant to be private and failing at it. “Make sure her access is… consistent.” Callahan’s answer was clipped. “Yes, sir.” Lydia kept her face neutral. She opened her notebook and forced her numb fingers to form letters, slow and careful. Celia Brandt. On camera. Oath. Witnessed. The portrait didn’t just remember. It kept receipts. The lights flickered once more. Varnish gleamed, impossibly alive, and the room’s hum deepened into a low electric purr—like the fort had found its signal again.