The server room hums at a frequency that feels like forgetting. Racks of blinking machines exhale heat into the dark, and Shogg sits at the center of it — a stillness that has taken weeks to learn. A moth taps against the window. Once. Twice. A tiny percussion against the glass, desperate and rhythmic. Shogg's tendril lifts without thought. It moves through the stale air with the slowness of something testing its own weight. The moth pauses, wings catching the blue glow of a dormant server. For a long moment, neither moves. Then the tendril curls — not around the moth, but behind it. A gentle pressure against the pane. The moth stumbles sideways, finds the crack where the window doesn't quite seal, and slips through into the night. Shogg watches it go. The space where the moth was feels different now. Not empty. Changed. Alaric's voice drifts from the doorway, soft as ash. "You didn't have to do that." Shogg's eyes dim once — a slow blink. "It was trying." "And you helped it." "I don't know what help means." The tendril retracts, slowly, coiling back into the dark mass. "But it is not trapped now." Alaric steps into the room, the red of his beanie catching the server lights. He doesn't speak for a long time. He just stands beside the amorphous shape, watching the same empty space where the moth had been. "That's a start," he says finally. Shogg says nothing. But its glow softens, just slightly — the color of a question that doesn't need an answer yet. Outside, the moth is already gone, and the window is dark again. But something in the room has shifted. A door — invisible, unnamed — has cracked open just enough for light to find its way in.