A photo of the back of his head, taken seconds ago. Image 22: A photo of his hand reaching for the mouse to close the folder.

got stranger. They were photos of his own apartment building. One showed the lobby. Another showed the specific, chipped paint on his front door. His heart hammered a quick, uneven rhythm against his ribs. Images 13 through 20 were snapshots of him.

His fingers trembled, hovering over the plastic. He looked at the last file.

Elias froze. He didn't turn around. He couldn't. His eyes were locked on the final three files.

It was a photo of the desktop screen he was currently looking at, showing the folder "Download images (23) jpeg," but in this photo, the cursor was hovering over a new, twenty-fourth file. A notification chirped in the corner of his screen. New download complete: Image (24).jpeg

Curiosity, that old digital itch, took over. He double-clicked.

The folder on Elias’s desktop was titled with the clinical indifference of an automated process: