The corridors of the Oldest House felt quieter than usual. Not still—never truly still—but muted, like the building itself was holding its breath.

Trench stepped into the dim hospital wing that had been retrofitted inside one of the less volatile wings of the Containment Sector. Kate was already there, sitting by Susanna's bedside, her hand gently curled around their daughter's frail fingers. The soft beeping of the heart monitor was the only sound, each rhythm a reminder that time had not yet run out—but it could, at any moment.

Trench didn't speak at first. He crossed the room in silence, his shoulders drawn tight beneath his coat, and settled into the chair beside Kate. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Susanna's pale forehead. Her skin was cool, too cool.

"Darling's still in the lab," he said finally, his voice low. "He's working on a prototype. Says it might be able to isolate the resonance affecting her. Buy us time."

Kate didn't look up. Her thumb stroked Susanna's hand in slow, steady motions. "Time isn't enough, Zach. She's slipping away."

"I know."

Silence stretched between them, heavy with the weight of what couldn't be said. That this wasn't just another paranatural anomaly. That it was their daughter—their child—caught in its grip.

"We only ever got one shot, in the end," Kate whispered, as if afraid saying it aloud might make it real. "All the tests. The treatments. The specialists who said it would be a miracle if we conceived at all. The one time we got close, so close… And then—her."

Trench swallowed hard, his throat dry. "And then her."

He tried not to think about what had come before. Every moment, every silent car ride home, every crushed hope. And when Susanna had come along—somehow, miraculously—it had felt like a reward they hadn't deserved. A light in the cold, unpredictable chaos of the Bureau.

He and Kate both watched the rise and fall of Susanna's chest. Too shallow. Too slow.

"I didn't think I could love anyone as much as I love her," Kate said, voice breaking. "Not even you."

Trench gave a humorless smile, and it died quickly. "That's fair."

They sat like that for a long time. Trench took Susanna's other hand, his larger one engulfing her tiny, delicate fingers. He used to cradle her like this when she was a baby, in the rare hours when the Bureau didn't demand his presence. She had always been small. But now she felt fragile.

"I'd give the gun back to the Board if it would save her," Trench said softly. "I'd walk away. Walk into whatever dimension they wanted. Give them whatever they asked."

Kate finally turned to him. "Do you think they're listening?"

Trench looked toward the ceiling, toward the countless unseen corners of the Oldest House. "They're always listening. The question is whether they care."

The monitor beeped again. Steady, but uncomfortably thin.

Kate leaned into Trench's shoulder, and he let her. For once, he didn't feel like the Director of anything. Just a father who didn't know what to do.

Across the building, in the Research Sector, Darling was still working. Trench knew that. He also knew it might already be too late.

But here—here—there was still a girl breathing. Still a chance.

"I'm not ready to lose her," Kate said.

"Neither am I," Trench replied.

And for the first time in a long time, his voice cracked.