Rodion's projection spun above the stone, a faint dome of cold light, almost like frost trying to become a shape. To most eyes it would be a winter‑breath trick, but through Mikhailis's calibrated lenses it became a map with bones and lungs and memories. The Whiteways breathed in its own way; even the walls rose and fell in a slow rhythm. The model showed that breathing—corridors flexing on the beat, small pulses where ley ran thicker, ghost‑dots drifting where feet had been.
He planted his boots, hands on hips, and leaned so close the light brushed his nose.
If this thing starts showing pop‑up ads I'm uninstalling you, he thought, and the corner of his mouth tugged.
