The frame was heavier than it looked. Aria had the level; I had the wire; the wall had opinions.
"Up a hair," she said, biting her lower lip as the bubble drifted to the line and hesitated there like it was deciding whether to be helpful. "No, that's a whole eyebrow."
"Eyebrow achieved," I said, easing the wire another fraction. My side complained in that dull, warning way that meant I should listen as I continued to refrain from using mana. I pretended it was the wall grumbling, not me.
The elevator chimed—polite, confident—and three breaths later, Reika stepped through the open door with punctuality so crisp it made the chime feel like a herald. Violet hair braided, shirt sleeves rolled with geometric precision, dark trousers pressed into obedient seams. She carried a slim black case in one hand and a paper bag in the other.
