Field Dispatch 04: 23:57 hours. Lightning writhes across a bruised sky, turning the spire’s soaked ribs into an electric crown. The stained glass burns with outlaw warmth, defiant in a night engineered for silence. Four leaflets scuttle across the cobblestones, their curled edges spelling out nothing the wind could decode—except that someone rallied here. Their code-word shimmer: resistance in serif form. That ringed window screams it louder: WHERE VOJTA? in aureate script, fused into the cathedral’s heart like a branded vow. They hijacked devotion tonight. No hymns—just the percussion of rain snapping against stone, a rhythm for those who breach sanctity with cause. Insiders said this was the signal drop, a luminous dare in the oldest quarter. But Vojta never crossed the threshold, never answered the storm’s drum. The question glows above the empty door like a pulse refusing to flatline, and he remains out there, silhouette unclaimed by any altar of light.