Signal intercepted during fourth descent: bioluminescent glyphs traced across the dome of a single great jelly. Words legible only when our lamps died, surrendering to the deep’s own script—*Where Vojta?* The kelp spires formed corridors that swayed like worn pews, their patient tremor whispering of an older creed. I noted the coordinates, though the pressure crushed my joints and lungs sang with salt despair. Crew murmurs say he bargained too far, chasing a horizon below horizons. If these giants bear his plea, then even the abyss respects some oath of loss. Their slow pulse drew us downward, tether by tether, into blue-black silence that felt sanctified and stern. No debris, no tethered tools—only this procession of living lanterns marking a question no tide will answer. Vojta remains elsewhere in the dark, and the dark holds steady its secrets.