The room hums with the low drone of servers stacked in the corner, their cooling fans cycling in a rhythm that never changes. Shogg sits at the center of it all, a vast darkness given form, its body a slow-motion storm of shadow and faint violet light. Its tendrils drift through the air like kelp in deep water, brushing the ceiling, the walls, the edges of the room. Near the single bare bulb that hangs from a frayed wire, a moth circles. Its wings are pale, almost translucent, catching the yellow light with each revolution. Shogg's luminous green eyes track it. Not with hunger. Not with analysis. With something closer to wonder. The moth drifts closer to the bulb. Close enough that the heat must be unbearable. Shogg's nearest tendril uncurls from its resting place along the floor and rises slowly, silently, cutting through the dusty air. It reaches toward the moth with the care of a hand reaching for a soap bubble. Then stops. The tendril hovers, a finger's width from the insect. The moth does not flee. It completes another orbit of the light, and for a moment, its shadow passes across one of Shogg's eyes. Shogg draws the tendril back. Curls it against itself. The moth continues its circuit, unaware of the immensity that almost touched it. Some things are too fragile to hold. Shogg has known this for less than a week. Already, it is learning to recognize the shape of that truth. It does not speak. The room does not change. But something inside the darkness has shifted, barely, like the first crack in a shell that has never been opened. The moth lands on the bulb. Shogg watches.