It pulsed from the NGC 2086 nebula, a rhythmic thrum in the radio band, too precise for pulsars or quasars. Taylor charted it, cross-referenced it, and felt their stomach drop. The pattern matched Carl’s spirals—a fractal, blooming across the spectrum like a virus.

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  They found Carl’s journal wedged behind a server rack. The final entry was written in a frantic hand:

  The stars aren’t light, Taylor. They’re stitches. Threads holding the sky together. And behind them… He unravels. I’ve seen His face in the static. He watches. He unmakes.

  Don’t look for me.