Crimson Question Alley

Rain ticks against the corrugated iron, a thousand metallic teeth gnashing in rhythm while that lone lamp hums like a kept secret. The message—WHERE VOJTA?—slashes the gray in manic vermilion, still fat and glistening, bleeding down like a votive offering in this drenched corridor. My fingers trace the raised grains of the brick: they are cold prayers carved by neglect. Field dispatch 44-B: Location grid east 19, alley flanked by rust-chain fencing. Graffiti reads as interrogative demand, pigment viscosity suggests application within last two hours. No organic traces besides diluted droplets—smells of iron, smells of intent. The puddle mirrors the question in reverse, as though the ground mocks the sky. Somewhere beyond those shutters, rumors coil and crackle. Pilgrims like me walk these channels because symbols endure when bodies vanish. Hunt continues: Vojta remains elsewhere, untethered, loud in silence.