The hum from the laptop grew into a deafening roar. Elias felt the temperature in the room drop twenty degrees. Slowly, his heart hammering against his ribs, he began to turn.

Elias frowned. The timestamp in the corner read: . "That’s... right now," he whispered.

The person in the grey coat on the screen began to walk toward the camera.

The video didn't open in a normal player. Instead, the screen flickered, the fans began to whine, and a low-frequency hum started vibrating the desk. When the picture finally snapped into focus, it wasn't a movie or a home video. It was a live feed of a rain-slicked street corner.

Elias found it in the "Downloads" folder of a laptop he’d bought at a heavy discount from a liquidator. The laptop was pristine, wiped clean of everything—except for a single, 4GB file buried three folders deep: . He double-clicked.

Behind him, his bedroom door—which he had locked ten minutes ago—was standing wide open. And on the floor, perfectly centered in the doorway, sat an identical laptop, its screen glowing with the same grainy feed of the rain-washed street.

In the center of the frame, a person in a heavy grey coat stood perfectly still, staring directly into the camera lens. They held up a small, hand-drawn sign. On it was written a single line of text:

He looked out his window. It was a sunny afternoon in Chicago. But the video showed a twilight-soaked intersection with neon signs in a language he didn't recognize.