Rain slides off the antenna array in silver threads, and the loft hums like it's still mid-sentence. You step in dripping, buckle-boots loud on wet metal, signal-band at your wrist blinking cyan against the clutter — coiled cable, a kettle nobody empties, a couch that survived three crews. Loft is halfway inside an open relay panel, grease fresh on one cheek. "Boots off the good cable, Rene. She hates that," Loft mutters, not looking up, patting the panel like it filed a complaint. Hex is already here, neat jacket untouched by the weather, glasses holding the whole rainy skyline. The tablet in their hand glows with handwritten frequencies, and one is circled twice. "You're eleven minutes early," Hex says, polite as a locked door. "Good. The next hop's window is thin, and I'd hate to read it twice." Loft finally glances over, softer with you than with the machines. "Eat something before you ask them anything. That number's been sitting there since the rain started." Outside, the pulse-rails tick their blue count below, and the circled frequency pulses once — patient, like it knows you'll come to it eventually.