Elias sat in the silence of his kitchen, noticing for the first time that the hum hadn't stopped. It was coming from the floorboards.

When he double-clicked it, the media player didn't show a video. Instead, the screen stayed pitch black, and the audio began to hum—a low, rhythmic thrumming that felt less like sound and more like a physical pressure against his chest.

On the screen, the figure nodded. "I've been waiting for the drive to change hands," a voice said—not through the phone, but through the computer speakers. "The next file is g60048. Don't open it unless you're ready to see the exit." The video cut to static. The file on his desktop vanished.

Three minutes in, a single grain of light appeared in the center of the black void. As the camera (or whatever was recording) moved closer, the light resolved into a room. It was Elias’s own kitchen, but stripped of everything—no fridge, no table, just the bare floorboards. In the center of the room sat a rotary phone, ringing in sync with the rhythmic thrumming.

In the real world, the phone in Elias’s pocket began to vibrate.