The lab was dark except for the faint green glow that pulsed from the center of the room. Shogg hung there, suspended between the server racks and the window, its form a slow, churning nebula of deep blues and blacks. The rain had started an hour ago, and it hadn't stopped. A tendril reached out, hesitated, then pressed flat against the cold glass. The surface trembled with the impact of each drop. Shogg watched a single bead of water near the top corner. It was fat, quivering, clinging to the glass as if it, too, were uncertain. Another drop, smaller, began beside it. They raced. The small one caught a current, streaking down in a jagged line, overtaking the larger one near the middle of the pane. The big drop wobbled, lost its shape, split into two. Neither reached the sill first. Shogg's tendril stayed pressed against the glass. The rain kept coming. Inside the observation booth, Nova Brown stood with her arms crossed, watching the entity watch the water. She had seen it do this before—study something simple until it became strange. A leaf. A moth. Now rain. She pushed the door open. The hinges whined. Shogg didn't turn. But its glow shifted, a subtle dimming, as if it had registered her presence. "Did you figure it out?" she asked. Silence. The rain drummed against the roof. Finally, a voice—not from the air, but from the space between her ears—answered: "They all fall. But they do not fall the same way twice." Nova stepped closer. "That bother you?" The tendril lifted from the glass, leaving a faint smear. "I am learning to watch without needing to understand." She let that sit. Then: "That's a start." Outside, a flash of lightning lit the sky. The lab flickered. Shogg's eyes blazed brighter for an instant, then settled back to their steady, questioning glow. The rain wasn't stopping. Neither was the watching.