She didn’t remember making the promise, but her signature was there all the same. The letter congratulated her. Selected. Chosen. Bound. She laughed at first. A mistake, obviously. Some bureaucratic error. Until she reached the bottom of the page. Her name. Her signature. Perfect. Undeniable. “You volunteered,” the official said, sliding the document back toward her. “I didn’t,” she replied. “You did,” he insisted calmly. “Years ago.” Her stomach twisted. “For what?” He studied her for a moment, as though deciding how much to reveal. “For the allocation.” She frowned. “What allocation?” His expression didn’t change. “The risk.” The word hung in the air, heavy with meaning. “What does that mean?” “It means,” he said carefully, “that someone has to carry it.” A silence followed. Then understanding, slow and terrible. This wasn’t a prize. It was a burden. A responsibility no one wanted—but someone had to accept. And somehow, she had. The signature proved it. The promise sealed it. She looked down at her name again, at the certainty in the ink. Then back up at him. Her voice was steadier now. “Tell me what happens next.” Whatever happened next, it would no longer be an accident.