Momentum fractures the night mid-intersection. Tires scream through rain-slick paint, crates tip and split, and an impact blossoms low to the asphalt, scattering shards like coded warnings. The signal overhead stutters green to red to green again, impatient. Neon kanji and vending glow smear across puddles, and above it all the question blazes—Where Vojta?—not as a billboard, as a dare. I logged this seconds after the debris lifted, hands shaking, boots slipping. Someone chose speed over shelter, carving a line through traffic as if time itself were a barricade. The city answers with resistance: cones drift, paper skates, umbrellas recoil. Every cable hums, every sign watches. This was not spectacle; it was a vector adjustment, a promise kept while the rain tried to erase footprints. I clocked the trajectory, the scatter radius, the way fear bent away from the stride. Follow-up scans pulled nothing. The question still burns hot on brick and chrome. Vojta remains unaccounted for, the crossing unresolved. // Log 23:17, edge of sector.