The screenshot was more than a threat; it was a psychological weapon. Mira's frantic attempts to secure her digital life now felt laughably futile. Link wasn't just watching; he was embedded. He was a silent, unseen partner in her every online interaction, a constant shadow in the glowing screen of her phone. The paranoia blossomed into a full-blown siege mentality.
She couldn't trust her phone, her laptop, or even the smart TV she'd bought last year. Every device felt like a potential portal for him to peer through. She disconnected her Wi-Fi, started using mobile data sparingly, and even wrapped her phone in tinfoil at night, a desperate, irrational act that offered a sliver of imagined security. Marley seemed to understand, sticking closer than ever, often lying with his head on her lap as she stared blankly at her dark, silent phone.
Work became a gauntlet of anxiety. She no longer played music, the silence in the shop almost as oppressive as the phantom melodies had been. Every customer who lingered felt suspicious, every passerby on the street outside a potential spy. Her manager, a kindly older woman named Brenda, noticed her increasing withdrawnness. "Everything alright, dear? You seem a bit... jumpy." Mira mumbled something about stress, unable to articulate the invisible noose tightening around her.
Her social life, already small, dwindled to nothing. She cancelled plans, afraid to leave her flat, afraid to expose herself further. The thought of meeting friends, of having a normal conversation, felt impossible with the chilling certainty that Link was somehow listening, watching, always there.
Then came the messages. Not on her phone, which she rarely used, but to Brenda. Brenda showed them to Mira one afternoon, her brow furrowed with concern. They were short, polite, inquiring about Mira's wellbeing, suggesting she seemed "distracted" and "might benefit from some time off." They were signed by a fictitious name, but the underlying tone, the unnerving accuracy of the observations, screamed Link. He wasn't just targeting Mira; he was manipulating her environment, isolating her, making her increasingly vulnerable.
Mira's sleep became a fragmented landscape of nightmares. She dreamt of shadowed figures, of eyes watching from every corner, of her own voice lost in a digital static. She woke up in cold sweats, gasping for air, the sense of being trapped overwhelming.
One evening, as the last vestiges of daylight faded from the Wolverhampton sky, Mira sat in her darkened living room, Marley curled tightly at her feet. She hadn't turned on the lights, preferring the deceptive safety of the gloom. Her phone, still wrapped in its tinfoil cocoon, lay forgotten on the coffee table. The silence of the flat was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic tick of an old clock in the hallway.
Then, from outside, just beneath her window, a faint sound drifted up. It was a single, clear note, played on a flute. And then another. And another. A simple, haunting melody, familiar in a way that made her blood run cold. It was the theme from the game, the background music she'd spent hours listening to when she was younger. The game about Planet Link. The game that had filled her childhood with innocent fascination.
He wasn't just observing her current life; he was reaching into her past. He knew her history, her childhood interests, the forgotten fragments of her memory. He was weaving a web not just of her present vulnerabilities, but of her very identity. He wasn't just Link; he was connected to her in ways she couldn't fathom, an unseen, unheard entity slowly, meticulously, claiming every part of her world. The game was no longer a nostalgic memory; it was a chilling, personal message.