"Veronika will be dead on the manor steps," I said, voice sharp enough to cut the morning haze. My father did not blink. He folded his hands over a pile of reports and looked at me as if I had announced a weather change. "Dreaming again," he said. His voice was the same even tone he used when signing orders. "You wake everyone. You must be calmer." "I saw the blood on the stone, Dad." I walked toward his desk. My hands trembled. "I saw her fall and the man with the black band on his sleeve walk away—count three, turn left, cuff missing, pocket mirror cracked." Mason Ryan's jaw tightened. He did not raise his voice. That was worse. "You are Director Ryan's problem," he said. "You are in the building where a stray comment ruins promotions. You cannot run predictions through corridors and expect no one to notice." "I am not asking for a promotion," I snapped. "I'm telling you a future you can stop." He stared at me until my throat closed. A clock on the mantel ticked loud enough. No one in our house used clocks to mark guilt; they used them to measure patience. "There is protocol," he said finally. "Field trouble follows you. Transfer to the maritime intercept unit. You will be safer away from StreamWave." I laughed. It came out too high. "You mean safer from Veronika? Safer from the crypts? Safer from the very thing I can stop