The next hall pretended to be neutral. It had that bland, architectural confidence you only get from rectangles that have passed their safety inspections. The air was cool. The light was steady. The floor did not sigh or try to have an opinion. Which was precisely why I didn't trust a single square inch of it.
"Place your bets," Valeria said, her voice a bright chime in my mind. "Invisible marbles, judgmental tiles, or the classic 'falling ceiling that just wants attention'?"
Erebus brushed the pact-line once, a silent, dry command. 'Proceed.'
I took three short-guard steps—tip quiet, hips stacked, no pre-motor fidget. The first two landed like I'd paid my taxes on time. On the third step, the floor decided to finish the motion for me. It was a tiny thing, a fractional shift. My boot was still an inch above the stone when the ground decided exactly where it would be, and the rest of my body followed because that's what bodies do with gravity and consensus.
