FADE IN: EXT. KUNSTHISTORISCHES MUSEUM, VIENNA, NIGHT Snow falls on the Maria Theresien Platz. Light and silence. The museum rises from the square like a cathedral carved from imperial ambition, its windows glowing amber behind iron shutters. A tram bell rings somewhere in the city. Then the sound fades to nothing. On the roof, a shadow moves. Barely there. A figure in matte black crouches beside a ventilation intake, studying it the way a surgeon studies an incision point. MAREN VOSS, 32, pulls a leather tool roll from inside her jacket. The leather is creased, darkened by years of handling. She unrolls it on the roof surface and selects a custom screwdriver without looking, her fingers finding it by memory. Four turns. The intake grate comes free. She sets it down without a sound and peers into the shaft below. Darkness. She clips a thin cable to the roof edge, wraps it once around her gloved hand, tests it with her full weight. She descends into the building. INT. KUNSTHISTORISCHES MUSEUM, VENTILATION SYSTEM, CONTINUOUS The shaft is narrow, industrial, lit only by the penlight mounted on her wrist. Maren moves downward with a controlled fluidity, bracing herself against the walls, each movement deliberate and soundless. She reaches a junction where two shafts converge and stops. From a pocket she produces modified lenses, thin as sunglasses, and pulls them down over her eyes. Through the lenses: a thermal sensor grid. Red lines crisscross the shaft in a shifting lattice. The pattern