Meta had one hour before the ledger equations either thinned the wall or dissolved his office. He stood behind his desk in Xanadu, three tentacles pinning open the survey, a fourth holding binder four at tab seven: Catastrophic Miscalibration, Spatial. The wall behind him hummed. On the other side lay section 7-C of Cthulhu's outer corridor. His lease said he could cut. His math said he did not yet know where. The problem was simple and awful. He had forty-two equations pulled from a data haul off a black-market accounting rig shaped like a pirate ship, all cyan trim and constellation etchings. Six of them, in the right order, would thin the veil enough to carve. The other thirty-six would unmake the room. He did not know which six. Meta was a good accountant. He did not guess. He reconciled. He set the resonance blade on the desk. Crimson star at the fuller, cyan glow down the curve, grip fitted to his tentacle span, frequency locked. He picked up the ledger and read the first equation aloud. The wall did nothing. He crossed it out. Second equation. The air near the wall cooled by two degrees. He circled it. Third. His pen lifted off the page on its own. Circled. Fourth. Nothing. Crossed out. He worked the list the way his father worked receipts: every line touched, none skipped, no line trusted until it was checked twice. Forty minutes in, he had six circles and thirty-six crosses. He checked the six against binder four. None of them matched a known failure mode. That was as close to proof as he was going to get. Meta lifted the blade in his primary tentacle. He read the six equations in sequence. The wall behind the desk went thin as wet paper. He could see through it now: a corridor of black water and slow, wrong light. He cut. One pass, waist height, left to right. The blade moved clean. He turned it, cut down. Turned again, cut back. A square, precise, edges true. The wall fell inward without sound. What came through was not the corridor. Tentacles pressed into the office through a jagged hole that widened as he watched, green and violet, thick as his leg, pulling the edges of the cut wider. The survey said section 7-C was empty at this hour. The survey was wrong, or something had moved. A tentacle knocked binder four off the shelf. Another wrapped the desk lamp and squeezed it dark. Meta stepped back. The gateway was open. It was not permanent yet, and it was not his. He raised the blade again. The frequency held. His hand did not shake. He had cut the wall. Now he had to hold the doorway before whatever owned the other side finished claiming it.