Oversight did not mourn Helin Varos.
They didn't need to.
In their model, grief was wasted output—an emotional expense with no predictive value. If a student collapsed under ambiguity, the system didn't call it tragedy.
It called it calibration.
And once calibration began, it didn't stop after one data point.
It sought confirmation.
The morning after Helin's collapse, the Triangle looked normal.
Training schedules populated.
Ranking boards refreshed.
Instructors rotated with practiced neutrality.
Even the cafeteria noise returned—trays clattering, conversations layered, laughter forced just a little too loud.
But underneath, the campus behaved like a creature after a near-miss.
Careful.
Students didn't sprint down hallways anymore. They walked with measured steps, as if speed might invite attention. Conversations didn't stop when Dreyden entered—worse, they shifted.
People talked around him now, like he was a structure you navigated rather than a person you addressed.
