January 2031.
The year changed without ceremony.
No countdown in the unit. No toast. No message from Timothy marking a transition. The systems rolled over their date fields quietly at midnight, logs intact, thresholds unchanged.
January arrived like December had ended—heavy, watchful, unresolved.
Timothy noticed the difference not in what people said, but in what they brought him.
The first briefing of the year was not about Autodoc.
Hana sat across from him in the conference room, tablet idle on the table between them. She didn't open it right away.
"Before we start," she said, "I need to know what kind of conversations you're willing to have this year."
Timothy looked at her. "That's vague."
"It's intentional," Hana replied. "Because the requests aren't."
She tapped the tablet once, bringing up a list he hadn't seen yet.
Not hospitals.
Not consortia.
Not health ministries.
