The moment snaps tight in the ceiling crawl, mid-gesture, when the red diode wakes and the air seems to flinch. A gloved hand crimps wire to contact; another grips the beam as if history might slide loose. The question is scrawled above in drying drips—Where Vojta?—not a slogan but a circuit label, tagged onto the structure that carries power forward and down. Below, figures cluster with shields and lamps, their boots counting time against the grate. Above, tools hang in drawn memory, the same motions rehearsed again and again, like someone keeps rewinding this breach to learn it better. Listen closely: the click of the connector, the scrape of cable, a hiss of current waking metal. This isn’t sabotage for spectacle; it’s inquiry conducted through infrastructure. The ceiling remembers hands; the floor remembers pressure. If the signal travels, who answers? The search tightens, luminous and unresolved. Vojta remains unaccounted for.