But it wasn't just on the screen. The shadows in his room were shifting, stretching into the shapes of soldiers. The sound was no longer coming from his speakers; it was coming from behind his door.
The lights in the house cut out. In the darkness, the only thing Elias could see was the glowing handprint on his monitor, and the sound of heavy boots marching across his bedroom floor.
A sudden gust of wind swept through his closed room, smelling of ozone and wet earth. The black screen suddenly bled into a vivid, photorealistic battlefield—mud-soaked trenches, the scream of low-flying planes, and the desperate shouting of men.
CHRONOLOGY SYNCED. WELCOME TO THE FRONT, ELIAS.
The extraction reached the end. A single icon appeared on his desktop: a rusted iron helmet.
