Luna didn't draw the picture.
It drew itself.
She'd woken in the middle of the night with charcoal in her hand and her forearm smudged black, like she'd been clawing at a dream. On the floor of her room—scrawled across three sheets of butcher paper taped together—was the same spiral-and-branch pattern she'd first sketched back in Chapter 72, during that feverish week after the resonance accident.
Back then, it was just lines. A nervous tic. A kid trying to map chaos.
Now, it was breathing.
The others gathered around it at dawn.
Mina crouched low, tracing a tendril that looped into a knot shaped like an eye. "It's changed," she said. "New lines. Like roots growing overnight."
Javi crossed his arms. "Or cracks spreading."
Tariq knelt beside Luna, who hadn't spoken since she found it. "You remember doing this?"
