Crimson Corridor Question

Report logged at 06:12: the corridor pulsed like a living vein, lit only by that fevered red bar overhead. Steam drifted low, curling in decisive arcs toward the sealed door, and every droplet quivered as though awaiting a verdict. The inscription—WHERE VOJTA?—scrawled in rushed, towering letters, mirrored in fragile green on the phosphor screen. That machine isn’t idle; text refreshed twice in my brief watch, the final blink aligning with a click beneath the floor, an almost joyous percussive cue. Evidence denotes method: pipes hum in sequence, dust patterns show recent motion toward the left wall, not the exit. The smell suggests heated wiring, not fire, as though some inner engine is priming for a reveal. Yet the transformation halts here, hung on breach-proof steel, leaving us stung by its unfinished crescendo. We combed both ends, knuckles pink from the heat, but Vojta remains unseen—barely a shadow on our instruments, an ache in the question repeating on every surface.