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A soft ding echoed through the room. Another notification appeared on his screen, right next to the first one:

The notification appeared at 3:29 AM, a pale blue flicker against the darkness of Elias’s studio.

He walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. The street was empty, bathed in the pre-dawn gray of Pensacola. But as he looked down at his monitor, the image in the folder had updated.

The pixelated photo on the screen began to clear. It wasn’t just any street; it was the view from his own window, taken from the perspective of the treeline across the road. In the center of the frame, a figure stood by the oak tree, holding a laptop. The Mirror

Elias hadn’t clicked a link. He hadn’t been browsing. The file sat on his desktop, a digital stowaway with no origin. Most people would have deleted it, but Elias was a digital archivist—a man paid to be curious about the things others forgot. The Unpacking

Elias stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. In his headset, he heard the exact sound of the chair scraping, delayed by a few seconds.