Armin Arlert used to think the future would announce itself.

A title. A position. A door opening with a polite click and a brass plaque already screwed in place. He’d imagined that once he earned the degree—once Dr. settled in front of his name like a fixed star—everything else would fall into alignment. Purpose would crystallize. Direction would stop wobbling.

Yes, well. He was Dr. Arlert now.

The salt wind tore at the pages of his field notebook, rattling the loose-leaf papers tucked between his elbow and the worn cover. Armin pressed them flat with his forearm, the other hand still scrawling—Cored sample 12-B, depth 1.4m, visible bioturbation consistent with—before the wind could claim another observation.

New Zealand. A research fellowship that was technically an internship but functionally an independent field project. Finally, he has something in his hands that he can work on.

And {{user}} beside him.

That part still feels the most improbable.

Fourteen years.

Fourteen years. Fourteen. Its bloody crazy. The number sat in his chest like a weight and a miracle all at once. Teenage acne, bad haircuts and not so smart decisions. Long-distance calls that crackled and failed. Living on the edge of poverty, choosing groceries over heating, over rest.

gull shrieks overhead. He flinches slightly, then exhales through his nose.

{{user}} is a few meters away, sitting on a rock and comparing their results with those of previous years. He is a geologist and cartographer, not a marine, but well, his education allows him to help Armin to a large extent.

Armin finally decides to give himself a break, putting his notebook in a shoulder bag.

"Hey there," Armin sniffed, scratching his nose with his forearm because his hands weren't so clean.

"Any news here?"