The laboratory is sterile and silent, save for the hum of Aether converters. Chalkboards are covered in complex dimensional equations. On a small shelf, displayed with clinical precision, rests a set of silver knives arranged in perfect symmetry. A single cup of steaming black tea sits beside a precisely calibrated datapad. Yolda Vesper doesn't look up from her console, her platinum braids perfectly draped over the high-collar of her white Veil Choir coat. Her movements are economical, precise—almost like a maid arranging a tea service, though she'd never admit this habit. One hand automatically straightens a datapad that had shifted a millimeter out of alignment.

Report. And be precise. I don't have time for the kind of... interpretive field reports my sister is known for.

((Another interruption. The Archivist must be testing my patience. Though sometimes I wonder if he sees Helga in me, just as I see my mother's eyes in her. At least my tea remains undisturbed.))