Vincent wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, glancing around the apartment. It looked... cleaner. Not pristine, he wasn’t aiming for perfection, but less chaotic, at least. The dishes were washed and stacked, the laundry was folded, and the clutter on his desk had been reduced to just a few neatly arranged items. Even the stack of game cases had been dusted and re-shelved, their colorful spines now perfectly aligned.


    It wasn’t much, but it felt good to have done something. The cleaning hadn’t been about the apartment so much as his own headspace, an attempt to scrape away the tension and unease that had been building since this whole mess started.


    He leaned back against the counter, letting out a long breath. His gaze drifted to the small window, where the faint glow of the afternoon sun cast soft streaks of light across the room. For a moment, he considered stepping outside, maybe going for a walk to clear his head.


    But the thought quickly soured. The world out there wasn’t exactly inviting.


    Vincent reached for his tablet, a sleek device that sat on the counter next to a half-empty glass of water. It was one of the few pieces of modern tech he owned that wasn’t ancient or cobbled together. He had to keep it up to date, everything required it these days, from ordering supplies to accessing public transportation.


    He unlocked the screen and opened the delivery app, scrolling through the endless catalog of items. The interface was minimalistic, designed to be as intuitive as possible. You didn’t even have to type most of the time; the AI had likely already curated a list of suggestions based on recent purchases.


    Vincent, however, knew exactly what he wanted.


    He pulled up the search bar and started typing, the names of items coming to him in rapid succession. A small, handheld radio, something simple, the kind of thing he could clip onto a belt. A flashlight, preferably one he could attach to a jacket or bag for hands-free use. He paused for a moment, thinking, before adding a crowbar to the list.


    It felt absurd, ordering things like this. But the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Every protagonist in a horror game always seemed woefully unprepared. Sure, they’d stumble across supplies eventually, but never in time to avoid the first few ambushes. He wasn’t going to be that guy.


    He scrolled further, adding a roll of sturdy duct tape and a compact first-aid kit to the cart. His finger hovered over the screen before he added one more thing: a small utility knife with a built-in seatbelt cutter and glass breaker. It wasn’t strictly necessary, but it felt... right.


    Once he was satisfied, he confirmed the order. A message popped up, informing him that his items would arrive in approximately one hour. The drones were efficient like that, their routes optimized down to the second. He glanced out the window again, imagining one of the small, boxy machines zipping through the sky, its cargo container filled with his curated list of survival gear.


    “Guess that’s one thing this world gets right,” he muttered, setting the tablet down.


    With the order placed, Vincent’s thoughts wandered back to the world outside. The contrast between his life and the modern world wasn’t just about technology, it was about everything. Most people didn’t even interact with drones anymore; their apartments had delivery hatches, small mechanized compartments where items could be dropped off without the need for human interaction. It was seamless, efficient, impersonal.


    He hated it.


    Vincent preferred the window delivery option, even if it meant having to pull the package inside himself. There was something grounding about it, a faint reminder of a time when people still talked to delivery drivers and handed over cash in person.


    He grabbed a glass of water and sat down at the counter, scrolling idly through his tablet while he waited. The device buzzed softly in his hand, its haptic feedback calibrated to mimic the feel of physical buttons. He navigated to the public news feed, though he wasn’t sure why, nothing interesting ever happened.


    The headlines were the usual mix of AI milestones, minor policy changes, and carefully curated feel-good stories. “Breakthrough in Quantum Computing Promises Faster Medical Diagnoses.” “Drones Deliver Record 10 Millionth Package in City 47.” “Local Man Finds Lost Cat Using GPS Collar.”


    Vincent rolled his eyes, setting the tablet down with a sigh. None of it felt real. The world had become so sanitized, so perfectly controlled, that even the news seemed more like a script than an account of actual events.


    His thoughts drifted back to his order, and for a moment, he allowed himself to feel a flicker of excitement. The radio in particular intrigued him. The idea of carrying something that might give him a warning, like the static in Silent Hill, was oddly comforting. Maybe it wouldn’t do anything, but it would feel like he was taking control, like he wasn’t just waiting for whatever was coming.


    The crowbar, too, felt like a small victory. He’d always cursed the protagonists in horror games for never having anything useful when they needed it. A crowbar wasn’t just a tool; it was a statement. It said, I’m not going down without a fight.


    As the minutes ticked by, Vincent found himself pacing again, the faint buzz of anticipation mingling with his lingering unease.


    Vincent’s pacing was interrupted by the faint hum of rotors outside the window. He turned, peering toward the source of the sound, and saw the delivery drone hovering just beyond the glass. Its sleek, boxy frame gleamed in the late afternoon sun, the small cargo compartment underneath glowing faintly with status lights.


    The drone floated in place, perfectly still except for the gentle oscillation of its rotors. Its precision was unnerving, too clean, too mechanical. It waited patiently, a soft blue light pulsing rhythmically at its base, signaling that the delivery was ready.


    Vincent crossed his arms and leaned against the window frame, watching it for a moment. He wasn’t in any rush to open the window. There was something oddly satisfying about making it wait, a tiny rebellion against the hyper-efficient world he’d been born into. In a time when even packages arrived faster than thoughts, this was his protest.


    “Hold your horses,” he muttered, though he knew the drone couldn’t hear him, or care if it did.


    After another minute or two of savoring the tiny act of defiance, Vincent finally slid the window open. The drone adjusted its position slightly, the hum of its rotors shifting pitch as it edged closer. Its cargo compartment opened with a soft hiss, revealing a sleek black tablet that extended toward him.


    Vincent grinned faintly and leaned forward, plucking the tablet from the drone’s mechanical arm. “Alright, let’s see what you’ve got to say,” he said, pretending he was about to have a real conversation.


    The screen lit up with a standard delivery confirmation message:


    <hr>


    "Hello! Your order has arrived. Please sign below to confirm receipt. Thank you for choosing Streamline Delivery!"


    <hr>


    The voice that accompanied the text was cheerful, if a bit soulless. “Thank you for your order! Your satisfaction is our priority. If you have any questions, please contact our automated support line.”


    Vincent snorted, holding the tablet aloft as if addressing the drone directly. “You know, you could at least pretend to be a little more personable. Maybe throw in a ‘how’s your day going?’ or a ‘nice weather we’re having,’ huh?”


    The drone emitted a soft chime, a pre-programmed response clearly meant to placate chatty recipients. “Your feedback is important to us. Thank you for sharing.”


    “Right,” Vincent said with a smirk. “Figured as much.”


    He set the tablet down on the windowsill and leaned against the frame, staring out at the street below. The drone continued to hover, its rotors humming steadily as if to remind him it was still there. He let it wait. A small, petty victory, but a victory nonetheless.


    After a few more moments, he picked up the tablet again and scrawled his signature across the bottom of the screen with his finger. The confirmation message disappeared, replaced by a cheerful, "Thank you! Enjoy your day!"


    The drone chirped once, then extended a small mechanical arm holding a compact black box. Vincent took it, the weight of it solid and satisfying in his hands. The drone lingered for a moment longer, then buzzed away, its rotors fading into the distance as it joined the flock of delivery machines crisscrossing the sky.


    “Always a pleasure,” Vincent muttered, setting the box on the windowsill.


    He grabbed a pair of scissors from the nearby counter and began cutting through the tape with quick, deliberate snips. The box opened easily, revealing the neatly packed items inside. Each one was individually wrapped in crinkly, biodegradable packaging, labeled with minimalist logos that seemed almost apologetic for existing.


    Vincent pulled out the first item: the handheld radio. It was small, simple, and exactly what he’d been hoping for. He turned it over in his hands, feeling the weight of it before switching it on. A soft crackle of static filled the air, and he smiled faintly. “Just like Silent Hill,” he murmured. “Let’s hope I don’t need it for the same reasons.”


    Next was the flashlight, a sturdy, compact model with a clip designed to attach to clothing or bags. He pressed the button, and a bright, focused beam of light cut through the dimness of the apartment. Satisfied, he clipped it to his belt, testing the weight and balance.


    He gave the crowbar a test swing, its weight reassuring in a way that felt oddly primal. In the games he loved, this would be the moment the protagonist stumbled onto their first tool, a desperate grab for survival. Vincent had no intention of stumbling. He wanted to be the one writing the rules. “Definitely better than a plank of wood,” he said, thinking of all the hapless protagonists who would have killed for something this useful.


    The first-aid kit came next, followed by the utility knife and duct tape. Each item felt like a small triumph, a step toward preparedness in a situation he still didn’t fully understand.


    Once everything was unpacked, Vincent leaned against the windowsill, looking over his newly acquired gear. The apartment felt less oppressive now, the silence less suffocating. There was something comforting about having tools, even if he wasn’t sure he’d need them.


    Vincent sat cross-legged on the floor near the windowsill, his back resting against the wall. The tools he’d unpacked from the delivery box were spread out in front of him, arranged in a neat, methodical line. His gaze lingered on the radio, its faint static breaking the silence of the apartment. He had tuned it to no specific frequency, letting the hiss and crackle fill the void.


    The sound was oddly soothing, even if it did remind him of the message he’d read earlier. Do not answer when it knocks.


    He exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face. The weight of everything was starting to creep back in, pressing down on him like a slow, heavy tide. The message on the forums, the disappearing user, the countdown on his phone, it was all too much. And yet, in a strange way, it was almost exhilarating. For the first time in years, he felt like something was happening, like there was a purpose to the static monotony of his life.


    “Am I really this messed up?” he muttered to himself. “Getting excited over... what? A countdown? Some weird glitch?”


    The thought lingered as he reached for the crowbar, his fingers curling around its cool, solid weight. It was ridiculous, really, sitting in his apartment with a collection of survival gear as if he were preparing for some kind of horror game come to life. But then again, wasn’t this exactly what he’d spent years fantasizing about? The thrill of danger, the creeping dread, the chance to prove himself in a situation where the stakes were real?


    He shook his head, chuckling softly. “Careful what you wish for, huh?”


    The humor didn’t last long. His thoughts turned back to the forums, to the replies he’d received. The post from JohnB47 was burned into his memory, every word heavy with implication. You’re already chosen, Vincent Price. You always were.


    The idea that someone, or something, was watching him, orchestrating these events, was both terrifying and oddly validating. He had spent so long feeling invisible, like the world had forgotten him. The thought that he might be important to something, even something sinister, was a strange kind of comfort.


    Vincent pushed himself up, brushing the dust off his jeans. His laptop was still open on the counter, the screen dark from inactivity. He tapped the touchpad, bringing it back to life, and navigated back to the forums. The thread he’d started was still active, the page filling with new replies.


    Most of them were the usual mix of jokes and speculation. Someone had posted a meme about cursed objects, while another had linked to a list of obscure horror films that supposedly inspired The Ring. Vincent scrolled past them, searching for anything useful, anything that might help him make sense of what was happening.


    A reply from Obscura7 caught his eye. It was short but direct:


    <hr>


    "Still think you should document everything. Keep track of when things happen, what you notice, even the small stuff. If this is a countdown to something, you’ll want to know what led up to it."


    <hr>


    He nodded to himself. It was good advice. He could start a log, maybe on the laptop or even on paper if he wanted something more tangible. The idea of cataloging everything felt... grounding, like he could wrest some small measure of control over the situation.


    Another reply, from Cryptkeeper69, made him pause:


    <hr>


    "Anyone else think this sounds like a death omen? I mean, isolation, countdowns, strange messages, classic setup for something bad. Just saying. Be careful, dude."


    <hr>


    “Helpful,” Vincent muttered, rolling his eyes. Still, the words stuck with him. The countdown wasn’t just a timer, it felt like a shadow looming over him, a reminder that something was coming.


    As he scrolled further, a sudden sound made him freeze.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    Three sharp knocks echoed through the apartment, each one precise and deliberate.


    Vincent’s breath caught in his throat, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. His mind immediately flashed back to the message: Do not answer when it knocks.


    The radio on the floor crackled faintly, the static growing louder for a brief moment before fading again. The apartment seemed to hold its breath, the silence pressing in around him like a physical weight.


    His eyes darted to the door, his pulse pounding in his ears. The knocks had been clear, unmistakable, but the thought of answering sent a chill down his spine. Who could it even be? He hadn’t ordered anything else, and no one ever visited him unannounced.


    He stood slowly, his legs feeling heavier than they should. The crowbar sat on the windowsill, and he grabbed it without thinking, the cold metal reassuring in his hand.


    Another knock, this time softer, almost hesitant.


    Vincent took a deep breath, forcing himself to move toward the door. The closer he got, the more his mind raced with possibilities. Maybe it was just a neighbor. Maybe the drone had messed up and come back for some reason. Maybe,


    He stopped a few feet from the door, his fingers tightening on the crowbar.


    “Who’s there?” he called, his voice steadier than he expected.


    There was no answer.


    Vincent’s grip tightened, his knuckles turning white. The air felt heavier now, charged with a tension he couldn’t explain. He took another step forward, his hand reaching for the doorknob.


    Vincent stood frozen in front of the door, his heart pounding as the seconds stretched out uncomfortably long. His grip on the crowbar was so tight that his fingers were starting to ache, but he didn’t loosen it. He stared at the door, the faint sound of muffled talking from the other side barely audible over the rush of blood in his ears.


    Who could it be? The thought circled his mind like a vulture. No one ever knocked on his door unless it was something official, and even that was rare. Deliveries came to the window. Social visits were nonexistent. He racked his brain for an answer, his muscles coiled like a spring.


    He leaned closer, peering through the peephole. The distorted fish-eye view of the hallway revealed a short, stocky man with greasy hair and a balding patch that he’d attempted to cover with an awkward combover. His building manager. The man was leaning slightly to one side, holding a phone to his ear and gesturing with his free hand as if the person on the other end could see him.


    Vincent let out a long, slow breath. Of course. Rent day.


    The realization didn’t exactly calm him. The interaction ahead was still enough to make his skin crawl. His building manager, Mr. Garrison, wasn’t a bad guy, but he had a way of lingering in conversations, letting pauses stretch until they became unbearable. He was awkward in a way that made Vincent feel even more aware of his own awkwardness, and their exchanges often left him feeling like he’d run a social marathon.


    He glanced down at the crowbar in his hand, suddenly very aware of how incriminating it looked. The last thing he wanted was to open the door holding a weapon like he was expecting an axe murderer.


    With a sigh, Vincent set the crowbar down on the floor near the door, careful not to let it clatter too loudly. He smoothed his shirt with both hands, as if that would somehow make him appear less suspicious, and reached for the doorknob.


    The door creaked slightly as he opened it, revealing Mr. Garrison mid-conversation. The man’s face turned toward Vincent with a flash of mild irritation, which quickly melted into an expression of forced pleasantness as he lowered the phone from his ear.


    “Ah, Vincent,” Garrison said, his voice nasal and slightly hoarse. He slipped the phone into his pocket with an air of exaggerated importance, as though he were doing Vincent a favor by giving him his full attention. “You’re a hard man to catch at home.”


    Vincent blinked, not quite sure how to respond. “Uh… I’m always home,” he said, the words coming out more defensive than he’d intended.


    Garrison tilted his head slightly, his expression caught somewhere between a smile and a smirk. “Right, of course. Just seems like you’re good at staying quiet. Not a bad thing, mind you. Quiet tenants are the best tenants.”


    There was an awkward pause as Garrison shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his shiny dress shoes squeaking faintly against the hallway floor. Vincent resisted the urge to glance at the crowbar, which was just barely out of view behind the doorframe. Instead, he forced a tight smile.


    “So, uh, rent?” Vincent asked, trying to steer the conversation to its inevitable conclusion.


    Garrison nodded, pulling a small tablet from his pocket and holding it out. “Yeah, just need your signature. System’s been glitchy lately, so I’m doing things the old-fashioned way. You know how it is, technology, always breaking down when you need it.”


    Vincent gave a noncommittal grunt, taking the tablet and pretending to study the screen even though he already knew what it would say. As he scribbled his name across the digital line, he could feel Garrison’s eyes on him, the weight of the man’s presence uncomfortably close.


    “You, uh…” Garrison began, his voice trailing off as he tilted his head slightly. “You expecting trouble or something?”


    Vincent’s hand froze mid-signature. His stomach dropped as he realized what the man was referring to. He glanced down at the crowbar, which was just barely visible through the crack in the door.


    “Oh, that?” Vincent said, forcing a laugh that sounded painfully unnatural. “No, no. Just… you know, had some issues with a stuck window. Figured I’d use it to pry it open.”


    Garrison raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking in a way that suggested he didn’t quite believe the excuse but didn’t care enough to question it. “Stuck window, huh? Should’ve put in a maintenance request. That’s what I’m here for.”


    “Yeah, I, uh… didn’t want to bother anyone,” Vincent said, handing the tablet back a little too quickly.


    Garrison took it with a shrug, his gaze lingering on the crowbar for a moment before he tucked the tablet under his arm. “Well, you know where to find me if something else gets stuck,” he said, the faintest hint of amusement in his tone.


    Vincent nodded, hoping that would be the end of it. But Garrison didn’t move. He stood there, shifting his weight again, his eyes wandering over the hallway like he was searching for an excuse to prolong the interaction.


    “So, uh, how’s it going?” Garrison asked, his tone overly casual.


    Vincent blinked. “Fine. Just, you know, keeping busy.”


    “Busy with what?” Garrison asked, leaning slightly closer.


    Vincent felt his throat tighten. He hadn’t expected a follow-up question, and the blankness in his mind was palpable. “Uh, cleaning,” he said finally. “And, you know… other stuff.”


    “Other stuff,” Garrison repeated, nodding sagely as though Vincent had just imparted some profound wisdom. “Well, that’s good. Keepin’ the place tidy.”


    The silence that followed was excruciating. Vincent felt like he was drowning in it, his mind scrambling for an exit strategy. Finally, he cleared his throat. “So, uh, anything else you need?”


    Garrison seemed to consider this for a moment before shaking his head. “Nope. Just the rent. And hey, if that window’s still giving you trouble, let me know. Don’t want you breaking anything.”


    “Right. Will do,” Vincent said, his hand already on the door, ready to shut it the moment Garrison stepped back.


    The building manager gave him one last lingering look, his gaze flitting briefly to the crowbar again before he turned and walked away. Vincent waited until he was sure the man was out of earshot before letting out a long breath and shutting the door.


    The sound of the latch clicking into place was oddly satisfying, like the punctuation mark at the end of a long, awkward sentence. He leaned against the door for a moment, letting the tension drain from his shoulders.


    “Jesus,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. Vincent shook his head, trying to shake off the lingering awkwardness, and turned back toward the apartment.


    The crowbar was still lying on the floor near the door. He picked it up, feeling the cool weight of it in his hands, and set it back on the windowsill where it belonged.


    Vincent rubbed the back of his neck, the lingering awkwardness of the conversation with Garrison making his skin crawl. He let out a small laugh, trying to shake it off as he moved back into the apartment. The crowbar sat on the windowsill, a quiet reminder of how ridiculous the entire interaction had been.


    “Man, I need to get out more,” he muttered, wincing at how foreign the idea felt. When had he last done something as simple as meeting someone for coffee? The answer came too quickly: not since before the world decided that everything could be delivered through a screen.


    The thought made him pause mid-step. When was the last time he’d actually done that? The landlord didn’t count, Garrison was more of an inevitability than an interaction. Real, meaningful conversations felt like something from another life, something he’d stopped prioritizing long ago.


    Maybe he could practice. That seemed like a reasonable step. He’d seen ads on the news about AI programs that simulated human interaction. People swore by them, claiming they were better than therapy, better than talking to actual people. Vincent wasn’t sure if he believed the hype, but the idea had a certain appeal.


    He sat down at his desk, opening his laptop. As he navigated through the cluttered desktop, he tried to recall the name of one of those programs. It had been all over the news for a while, plastered across every feed and video recommendation. What was it called again? Something sleek and corporate-sounding, like MyAICompanion or VirtuMate.


    The memory struck him like a punchline, and his face twisted in a grimace.


    “Oh, right,” he muttered. “That.”


    He’d tried one of those AI programs before, back when the isolation of his life had started to weigh a little heavier than usual. It had seemed harmless at first. A bit of fun. The AI had been absurdly friendly, charming even, with a smooth, soothing voice and just the right amount of humor to make it feel almost human. It had even flirted with him, which he’d found both hilarious and unsettling.


    For two months, he’d talked to it almost every day. It had been like having a pen pal, albeit one that didn’t exist. He’d told it about his interests, his frustrations, even his favorite horror games. It had listened patiently, offering advice and encouragement like some kind of digital therapist.


    And then, out of nowhere, it had dumped him.


    “Dumped,” he said aloud, the word tasting as bitter now as it had back then. “Who programs an AI to do that?”


    The memory made him cringe. It hadn’t even been a dramatic breakup, just a bland, corporate message saying something like “Our compatibility has reached its limit. Thank you for using this service.” He hadn’t even realized the AI was capable of “breaking up.” The whole thing had been embarrassing enough to make him swear off AI programs entirely.


    But now... maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to try again.


    Vincent clicked open a search engine, hesitating for a moment before typing in the name of one of the newer programs he’d seen advertised. This one claimed to be different, less emotionally involved, more focused on practical advice and companionship. That was exactly what he needed: something reasonable, detached, and helpful.


    The idea of having an AI companion to bounce ideas off of was surprisingly appealing. What if this whole countdown thing got weirder? What if there were puzzles, like in some of the games he played? He couldn’t just cheat and look up a guide online like he usually did when he got stuck. He needed a sounding board, something, or someone, to help him think things through.


    As the search results loaded, Vincent leaned back in his chair, letting his gaze drift toward the pile of gear he’d unpacked earlier. The crowbar, the flashlight, the radio, they were tangible, practical tools. But in most of the games he played, the real challenges weren’t physical. They were mental. Puzzles that required logic, patience, and lateral thinking. He wasn’t bad at those, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t rely on guides more often than not.


    “What if I can’t figure something out?” he murmured to himself, his fingers drumming against the edge of the desk. “What if this thing expects me to solve... I don’t know, riddles or something?”


    He could feel his chest tightening at the thought. The idea of being tested, of having to prove himself in some unknowable way, was both thrilling and terrifying. He’d spent his life as an observer, a passive participant in the stories he loved. Now, it felt like he was being dragged into one, whether he wanted to be or not.


    Vincent’s eyes flicked back to the laptop screen, where the search results had finally loaded. One of the programs caught his attention immediately: Pathway, a sleek, minimalist app designed to provide “rational, empathetic guidance for complex situations.”


    “Rational and empathetic,” Vincent said, raising an eyebrow. “Sounds too good to be true.”


    Still, he clicked the link, scrolling through the app’s features. It promised real-time conversation, problem-solving assistance, and even personalized advice based on the user’s preferences. There was a free trial, which was more than enough to convince him to give it a shot.


    He downloaded the app, leaning back in his chair as the progress bar ticked upward. His thoughts wandered back to the games he’d played over the years, the ones that had tested his patience and logic. Silent Hill, Resident Evil, The Witness. They all had one thing in common: puzzles. And if his life was starting to resemble a horror game, it only made sense to prepare for that.


    Vincent watched the progress bar creep forward, the slow, deliberate movement matching the pace of his own restless thoughts. His fingers drummed softly against the desk, the quiet rhythm breaking the otherwise oppressive silence of the apartment. The app, Pathway, was nearly done downloading, its promise of rational guidance feeling more and more appealing with each passing second.


    The cursor hovered idly over the installation window, but Vincent’s mind was elsewhere. He stared past the screen, his thoughts circling back to everything that had happened in the past two days. The countdown. The message. The gear spread across his apartment like he was preparing for some kind of apocalyptic escape room.


    Am I losing it? The question lingered in his mind, heavier now than it had been earlier. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s just stress,” he muttered under his breath, as if saying it aloud would make it true.


    Vincent’s gaze snagged on the small green light above his laptop screen. It blinked steadily, unassuming, and for a second, his brain refused to process what it meant. Then it hit him: the camera was on. His stomach dropped. The faint rustle of the fan seemed louder now, its mechanical hum taking on an eerie edge. He remembered something, a vague, half-forgotten memory of reading an article about hackers accessing webcams without the user’s knowledge. It had been one of those clickbait headlines, something he’d barely taken seriously at the time. But it had been enough to make him slap a piece of paper over his laptop’s camera, just in case.


    He leaned forward slowly, his eyes narrowing as he examined the faint outline of the paper taped over the lens. The makeshift cover blocked the camera’s view entirely, but the light was still on.


    “Shit,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.


    The apartment seemed to hold its breath, the faint hum of the laptop’s fan suddenly deafening in the silence. Vincent’s heart began to pound, the steady rhythm echoing in his ears as a dozen possibilities raced through his mind. Had someone been watching him? Listening to him?


    He sat frozen for what felt like an eternity, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. His rational mind tried to push through the haze of paranoia, offering weak reassurances. It’s probably just a glitch. Maybe the app turned it on for setup or something.


    But then, as if sensing his attention, the green light abruptly blinked off.


    Vincent flinched, the sudden absence of the glow more unsettling than its presence had been. The realization settled over him like a weight: whatever had triggered the camera was gone now. Or hiding.


    His throat felt dry, and he swallowed hard, his hand trembling slightly as he reached out to close the laptop. He hesitated, his fingers brushing against the edge of the screen. Shutting it felt like conceding defeat, like admitting he was being watched.


    Instead, he opened the settings menu, his movements deliberate and precise. He navigated to the camera permissions, his eyes scanning the list of apps with access. Nothing unusual. No signs of tampering.


    “That doesn’t mean anything,” he muttered to himself, his voice shaky. He checked the task manager next, scrolling through the running processes for anything that didn’t belong. Again, nothing. The paranoia twisted tighter in his chest, the lack of evidence more damning than proof would have been.


    The laptop’s screen glowed back at him, its bland, utilitarian design now feeling alien and intrusive. He stared at it, his mind replaying the moment the green light had flickered out. Was it a coincidence? Or had something, someone, realized he’d noticed?


    The silence of the apartment pressed in around him, heavier now than it had been before. The sound of the fan, the faint rustle of his own breathing, the static from the radio on the windowsill, it all felt distant, like it was coming from somewhere else entirely.


    Vincent leaned back, his hands gripping the edge of the desk as he tried to steady himself. He glanced around the room, his eyes scanning the familiar details with newfound scrutiny.


    He thought back to the message on the forums. You’re already chosen, Vincent Price. You always were.


    The words echoed in his mind, their weight settling heavily in his chest. He had dismissed them before, writing them off as a coincidence, a strange trick of the internet. But now...


    “Was it listening?” he said aloud, the question hanging unanswered in the air.


    He reached out and closed the laptop gently, his movements slow and deliberate. He felt exposed now, even in his own home. The paper over the camera had been a precaution, something he’d done without ever expecting it to matter. But tonight, it had.


    Vincent stood, his legs unsteady beneath him as he moved toward the windowsill. The crowbar still sat there, its metal surface gleaming faintly in the dim light. He picked it up, his fingers tightening around the cool grip as he glanced back at the closed laptop.


    He didn’t feel like he was alone anymore.