The next morning, Samuel decided to make it official. He packed up what evidence he could a flash drive of strange log files, screenshots of the phantom text, and his own notes scrawled on yellow paper and headed to the nearest police station.
The cybercrimes division was tucked away in the back of the building, quiet and half-lit compared to the bustling front desk. An officer with tired eyes listened patiently as Samuel explained, his voice low, steady, determined to sound rational. He didn't want to come off as another panicked civilian who thought the Wi-Fi was haunted.
"…and then the static on the calls," Samuel finished. "That was when I realized it wasn't just me being careless. Somebody was in my life, and I don't know who."
The officer nodded, jotting notes, asking for details. Had Samuel clicked any suspicious links? Downloaded anything unusual? Did he know anyone who might want to spy on him? Samuel shook his head at each one. He was just a writer. A writer with enemies? No. A writer with an audience? Barely.
Yet as he handed over the flash drive, he felt something shift. For the first time since the strange words appeared on his screen, Samuel wasn't just reacting he was fighting back.
The officer assured him they'd run checks, file a report, keep him updated. It wasn't much, but it was something.
And for the first time in days, Samuel walked out into the sunlight with the faintest feeling of control.
Relief came slowly, like the warmth of the sun seeping through his coat. The world outside felt oddly normal bustling cars, people on their lunch breaks, the chatter of a nearby street vendor. He hadn't realized how much tension he'd been carrying until the air seemed easier to breathe.
Instead of heading straight home, he took a detour. There was a fast food joint two blocks away, one of his quiet comforts, where the smell of frying oil and the hum of casual conversation always reminded him that life could be simple, even predictable.
He ordered a burger, fries, and a soda nothing fancy, but familiar. Sliding into a booth by the window, he allowed himself a rare moment of ease. The fries were hot, the soda fizzed pleasantly, and for the first time in what felt like weeks, he almost believed things were going to be fine.
The report was filed. His devices were secure. His number was new. He was rebuilding control piece by piece.
Maybe Clara was right maybe he had just been overworked, seeing shadows where there weren't any.
Samuel leaned back, letting the noise of the restaurant drown out his thoughts, and for a brief, fragile moment, he felt almost ordinary again.
Then, just as he lifted his soda for another sip, the lights above flickered not long enough for anyone else to notice, just a quick dimming, like a breath drawn in.
A faint chill slipped across the booth, brushing the back of his neck.
Samuel froze, soda halfway to his lips.
And then it was gone. The warmth, the chatter, the grease scented air everything back to normal.
He forced a small laugh at himself, shaking his head as if to shrug it off.
But the taste of comfort didn't linger as much as it should have.