[Log 77–B] Dusk tightened around the towers as I edged along the rooftop garden, the air warm from the day’s trapped heat yet cooling fast enough to sting my breath. The city hummed beneath me, a vast canyon of glass and metal, but the real defiance lived in the oversized leaves trembling against their railing, insisting on carving out green corridors where the grids tried to smother them. One leaf glowed faintly, its message scorched into its pale center—Where Vojta?—like a quiet prayer pressed into living tissue. The tiny primate crouched nearby refused to blink, as if guarding the sign until someone with enough faith and restlessness showed up. I stepped forward, feeling that old cycle again: each clue leading me higher, then deeper, then higher once more, as though the search looped through seasons only I could sense. Heat still radiated from the concrete, but the coming night drifted glacial around my collar. I noted the location, whispered a vow into the leaves, and moved on—Vojta remains unfound.