The city exhales as a hooded figure grips brick and lock, purple veins of light crawling his coat like a heretical scripture. Chimneys crowd him like judges. A black cat sits inches away, unimpressed, tail ticking time. Below, lamps hiss, linen flaps, boots splash faintly on cobblestone, a street orchestra tuned to pursuit. Someone scratched WHERE VOJTA? into the roof lead, hopeful, bitter, half prayer, half taunt. He works fast: glance, breath, latch, listen, pause, curse, try again. Myth slips in uninvited; not gods, just old thieves’ lore and the faith that rooftops keep secrets better than doors. Steam coils and steals the moment, erasing faces and answers alike. The cat’s throat hums, chimneys moan with draft, metal clicks answer back in rivalry. This was supposed to stitch a distance closed, a lock to reunite hands long separated, yet the alley keeps its witness quiet. The cipher resists. Vojta remains out there, unsignaled, unrecovered.