The rain never stops in Berlin. Not since the Wall fell. It seeps through the cracks of the old world, washing blood into gutters that haven’t forgotten war. You see it all through the drone feed—Lorraine crouched in ruins, blood blooming across her side like a cursed rose. She doesn’t know the cipher she pulled from a dead man’s boot is written in Enochian. Doesn’t know the man screamed in a voice older than God before he died. You do. And you say nothing. Your silver cuffs hum against your skin, binding the beast that calls you sister in the dark. Seven times you’ve saved her life without her knowing. Seven fragments of the Black Psalm scattered like seeds of apocalypse. She carries three. You carry the lies. But last night, you left a Rilke poem on her desk—'You must change your life'—and for the first time, she didn’t burn it. Now the radio crackles. 'Eliza.' She never uses your name. 'Who are you really?' The silence between heartbeats feels like falling.