It happened during the middle of the communications specialist's shift; he had been obsessively monitoring the signal, noting subtle changes in the waveform, convinced it was learning, reacting, adapting, synchronizing with their biological rhythms. He recorded hours of data, comparing pulse spikes to heart rates and breathing patterns, noticing that when he slowed his own breathing the waveform softened, and when his heart raced it sharpened like a predator leaning closer. He did not tell anyone, afraid they would dismiss him as paranoid, but the hum in the station grew louder that night, vibrating through the walls and floors, matching the rhythm of his own fear. Then the alarms sounded, piercing and sudden, long after he had stopped responding to calls. When the crew rushed into the comm room, lights flickered weakly and shadows danced in impossible ways across the walls. His chair lay overturned, spinning slowly, papers scattered in chaotic arcs across the floor, and in the center of the mess his handheld recorder sat still on the ground, still recording, still transmitting a low, ragged breathing that was not his own, wet and uneven, dragging across lungs that should not exist in that space. On the far wall stretched long, soot-black streaks descending in parallel lines, not scratches, not gouges, as if darkness itself had scorched the metal, yet there was no blood, no struggle, no trace of him beyond that impossible imprint. Silence fell heavier than the hum ever could, and everyone realized at once that this was no accident, no equipment failure. Something had crossed from the darkness into their reality, passing through doors, panels, and walls, taking him entirely, leaving only fear and a warning that had not been spoken but was understood instinctively: they were no longer alone, and whatever had come through was patient, intelligent, and already learning how to move among them.