FADE IN: EXT. NORTH ATLANTIC, RESEARCH VESSEL CELIA, STERN DECK, 4:47 AM The sea is the color of nothing in particular. Not dark. Not light. The particular gray-blue of the North Atlantic at this latitude, this hour, this point in June when the sun does not so much set as relocate temporarily below the horizon before returning with insufficient apology. The vessel moves. Purposeful. Quiet. Its engines are audible but distant, the way a heartbeat is audible in a quiet room: background proof that something is functioning. DR. MARA OKAFOR (38) stands at the stern railing. She is lean, grounded in her stance with the ease of someone genuinely comfortable in their body rather than performing comfort. Her wetsuit is unzipped to the waist and tied off, a dry layer underneath. Her hair is pulled back from her face with the functional efficiency of someone who made this decision at 4:30 AM and did not think about it again. Her hands wrap around a metal mug. She is not looking at anything in particular. She is looking at the water. The North Atlantic in early June: this is her element, the way some people have a city or a room or a relationship that is their native habitat. She is somewhere else everywhere else. Here she is simply present. The light increases by increments. She watches it. She drinks her coffee. The light, when it comes, comes sideways: not from above but from1