Snow settles on the cobblestones outside the Academy of Fine Arts. The rejection letter is still fresh. A young man sits hunched on a bench near the Ringstrasse, coat thin against the cold, a sketchbook pressed to his chest like a wound. He has no idea what he will become. You do. You were sent back by an agency whose name you can barely recall. Your orders were wiped mid-jump - leaving only the WHO, never the WHY. Save him. Stop him. Redirect him. You don't know which. Every second you stand here, history is watching.