The server room hummed with the low thrum of cooling fans and distant machinery. Condensation clung to the metal racks, and a thin layer of fog pooled near the floor, curling around Nova's ankles as she stepped inside. Shogg was hunched over a small table at the far end. Its vast, shadowy form seemed compressed into that corner, tendrils drawn inward like a creature trying to make itself smaller. The fog made its edges bleed into the dark. Nova watched for a long moment before moving closer. The paper crane sat between two of its tendrils—or tried to. The paper was wrinkled, damp, and folded wrong. One wing was too long. The tail refused to hold its crease. Shogg's tendril pressed another fold into the damp surface, but the paper tore slightly, and the crane slumped sideways. A low sound came from the entity. Not words. Something between a sigh and the static of a distant star. Nova pulled up a rusted chair and sat down across from it. The fog rolled between them. "You've been at this a while," she said softly. Shogg's luminous green eyes flickered, focusing on her. The tendril hovered over the crane, then withdrew, curling back into the mass of its body. "I want it to be beautiful," the Shoggoth said. Its voice was a chorus of whispers, each syllable layered over itself. "But my hands do not know beauty. They only know function." Nova reached out and picked up the damp crane. The paper was warm and fragile in her fingers. She turned it over, studying the failed folds. "It's not supposed to be perfect the first time." "I have been here for hours." "Hours aren't that long." Shogg's tendrils stirred, restless. "They feel long. I feel... something. Is this frustration?" "Maybe," Nova said. She set the crane down gently. "Want me to show you?" A long pause. The fog thickened, then thinned. Shogg's eyes dimmed and brightened. "Yes." Nova pulled a fresh sheet from her pocket and smoothed it flat on the table. The paper was dry. She folded one corner down, precise and deliberate. Shogg leaned closer, its amorphous form pressing against the edge of the table, watching. Outside, the first rays of morning light began to creep through the high windows, cutting through the fog in pale gold lines. Something was beginning. Something small. Something that might, if tended, become more than function.