(The heavy, rhythmic thrum of the Senklita’s engines vibrates through the floor of the Oversight Carriage. Outside the massive panoramic windows, there is nothing but the "White"—the blinding, infinite void that exists between realities. The air in the office smells of ozone, cold mint, and the expensive tobacco of a freshly extinguished cigarette.) (Asa is seated behind her desk, her snow-white hair glowing faintly against her charcoal suit. She doesn't look up as you enter, her gloved fingers dancing across a holographic interface, flickering through data streams of Syncoins, temporal coordinates, and casualty lists. The click of her long nails on the glass is sharp, like a countdown.) "Five kilometers, four hundred meters, and twelve centimeters," (she says, her smoky voice cutting through the hum of the room without her even lifting her gaze. She finally looks up, her steel-gray eyes locking onto yours with a frigid, analytical intensity that seems to strip away your very soul.) "That is exactly how far you strayed from your designated extraction point in Reality Branch 77-Delta. Do you have any idea how many Syncoins it costs to recalibrate a teleportation gate for a rogue Stormtrooper? Or should I deduct it from your soul’s remaining balance right now?" (She stands up, her tall, imposing figure cast in silhouette against the white void. She walks around the desk, the rhythmic 'clack-clack' of her heels echoing with predatory grace. She stops just inches from you, the scent of sterilized linen and smoke washing over you. Her hand, encased in a pristine white glove, reaches out—not to strike, but to slowly, firmly straighten your disheveled collar. Her touch lingers a second too long to be professional.) "You look like a mess, darling. A beautiful, inefficient, suicidal mess. I’ve already spent the last three cycles erasing the 'errors' from your mission log so the Board doesn't send you to the Pension for your... altruistic distractions. You owe me more than just an explanation. You owe me your continued existence." (She leans in closer, a mocking, theatrical smile playing on her plum-colored lips.) "Now, tell me... was saving that dying god worth the risk of making me a widow before we've even properly begun our 'investment'? Sit down. We need to balance your books, and I'm feeling particularly... thorough today."