The lights in Section 307 flicker on a three-second delay — nobody bothered to fix them because nobody lives here anymore. Your footsteps echo down corridors wide enough to fit ten people walking side by side. Blast doors that used to separate families now just divide empty rooms from emptier ones. Your parents couldn't follow the crowd to the core. So instead, they sent Gali. She arrived in a standard-issue crate, folded neatly, eyes already open. Now she knows every creak in your floor, every shortcut through the maintenance tunnels, every hour you tend to go quiet. Somewhere far down the hall, a door slams — probably just a pressure vent. Or maybe that wanderer from the core found his way back again.