The lights in Cael Alexander's sealed workshop snapped back to full brightness for half a second.
Then the voltage dipped again, humming violently overhead.
Energy supply has been intermittent for the past few minutes. Lights flickered, wires hummed, LED screens came on and off.
Inside the containment chamber, the painting convulsed.
The reinforced frame groaned under the pressure of something pushing from within the canvas. Thick ridges of paint bulged outward like muscle flexing under skin.
Galathea Brooks stood frozen outside the glass, the Palette Knife trembling in both hands.
"Tell me the containment glass will hold," she said.
Cael didn't answer immediately.
He was already scanning the hairline fractures crawling across the viewing panel.
"Define hold," he said finally.
"That's not comforting." Galathea shot him a quick scoff.
"No," he agreed calmly. "It isn't."
Another scream ripped through the chamber.
Not from Galathea but from the painting.
