Then, on the screen within the screen, a shadow moved behind the "past" Elias.

The file sat on Elias’s desktop, a stark white icon labeled .

Elias stared at the black screen, his reflection staring back. Underneath the file he had just opened, a new icon appeared, pulsing softly.

The screen stayed black for ten seconds. Then, the low-light camera grain flickered to life. It wasn't Leo’s face. It was his desk, cluttered with coffee mugs and half-finished circuit boards. In the background, the video call window on Leo’s laptop was visible.

His heart hammered against his ribs. He didn't remember anyone being in the room. He didn't remember the air turning this cold.

He didn't turn around. He couldn't. He just watched the video as the shadow reached out a hand—long, grey, and translucent—and clicked "Record" on the video call interface. The video ended.

He’d spent the last year documenting the "glitch"—a series of unexplainable digital artifacts that appeared whenever he called his brother, Leo, who was stationed at a remote research outpost in the Arctic. Parts 1 and 2 had been nothing but static and audio lag. But Part 3 was different.