Monitors in Blue

[23:47, Annex C]. The rain threads against the glass like unread transmissions, steady, unbroken. Inside, a regiment of silhouettes leans toward their glowing screens, headphones cinched as if sealing confession. Each monitor hums the same austere plea—*Where Vojta?*—white letters suspended in the indigo hush. They do not speak; they type in orchestrated solitude, fingers tracing queries that feel closer to prayers than commands. I watched reflections fragment across the window, merging faces with blocked-out city lights. Beyond us, somewhere in those wet corridors, his route ended—or began again. No sign of his signature phrase in tonight’s traffic, only silence packaged in encrypted bursts. We were told to persist until the pattern surfaced, though persistence feels like ritual now. Secretly, I counted the screens: forty-seven agents, forty-seven echoes, yet the name still drifts beyond our reach. If this is pilgrimage, it leads deeper into absence, and Vojta remains unaccounted for.