Litany of Depth

Report fragment recovered at 03:14: *Observation Chamber Seven breached; thermal contrast rising; twin specimens positioned frontal, maws emitting interrogative code. Text reads WHERE VOJTA? in synchronized red-green bloom.* Hands—human, gloved—reach but do not strike. They hover, pilgrim-precise, as though touching relics burned with meaning, as though salvation hides in those armored throats. The water churns cold enough to bite bone, yet heat pulses in those glowing statements, hymns scratched in digital fire where teeth should be scripture. Two leviathans hold their mouths like altars, and the current hums like a choir running out of breath. Whoever sent them carries doctrine older than glass screens; commands coil inside each scaled plate: find him, find him now. Every dispatch insists urgency, and still the echo rings unbroken across black pressure miles—WHERE VOJTA? He has not surfaced. Not yet.