Steam still hung low like thin cloth, soft and stubborn, turning the slot into a small room that did not want to wake up. The Brake Choir hummed under the stone—a slow, honest note that sat in the ribs. Rodion widened the console with a neat click, and the whole floor unrolled like a clean sheet on bone.
"Neat," Mikhailis said, eyes bright like a kid at a market. "It's like a festival poster, but the bands are all dead."
