The air was damp again — that strange, heavy kind that stuck to her sleeves and made the wrench cold in her hands. Alone wrinkled her nose beneath the rim of her helmet. The Institute’s room stretched before her like a forgotten garden — vines crawling over beds and tables, pale mushrooms pushing through cracks in the floor. Everything smelled of rot and old rain.

She stepped over a collapsed chair, feet sinking softly into the moss. Her goggles fogged slightly as she looked up — the high window, cracked but glowing faintly with that gray-blue light, was just out of reach.

“Hey!” she called, voice echoing softly against tile and vines.

A shuffle, then the familiar patter of small feet. She turned, tapping the wall with her wrench. Lift me up, Low.