Submerged Question

He drops to one knee in the silt, a controlled exhale fogging his visor as the water carries a faint chill. The hull looms like a sleeper half-awake, its metal furred with roots and time. Gloved fingers pry back a living braid, revealing cut letters rasped straight into steel: Where Vojta? The sun fractures down through green gloom, spotlighting the words as if permission granted. Tools lie nearby in practiced order, a wrist compass ticking with a stubborn pulse that refuses to slow. Somewhere above, pylons and a catwalk fade into murk, hinting at access routes not meant for daylight eyes. This dive follows a coded note passed in a locker room nobody else remembers, confirmed by a stamp burned onto his sleeve. Heat bleeds from the suit as effort mounts, yet the moment sharpens, triumphant and private. "He didn’t vanish—he dove," he says, steady. The answer scratches back in silence. Vines reclose like curtains, the watch ticks on, and Vojta remains unaccounted for.