The first thing Elara noticed was the silence.
Not the peaceful kind—the curated kind. The kind that came from guards standing too still, from doors closing too softly, from footsteps that never wandered without purpose.
She stopped at the end of the corridor.
Two men stood where yesterday there had been none.
Black coats. Neutral expressions. Hands folded in front of them like a prayer that had forgotten its god.
"Elara Romano," one said, inclining his head. "Good morning."
She stared. "Move."
"I'm afraid," the other replied gently, "this wing is no longer accessible."
Her chest tightened. "What the hell are you talking about?"
The first guard glanced down the hall, then back at her. "Orders."
"From whom?"
The pause was answer enough.
Elara laughed once, sharp and brittle. "Of course."
