The cursor stops blinking. The screen clears. A square appears on the desktop, pale and undecorated, like it forgot its name. Jason leans back.
"That's it?"
The fan hum softens. Light from the monitor paints his hands blue.
"No bar. No prompt. You serious?"
He taps the mouse. The icon does not react.
"I didn't even click install."
The room smells faintly of dust and warm plastic. His phone buzzes. He ignores it.
"Weird. What kind of software is this?" he says, louder now.
The lamp hum deepens. Dust drifts through the cone of light.
Jason drags the icon. It slides, obedient. He releases it.
"Okay. Fine."
The file sits where he leaves it. Blank. Watching.
His pulse nudges his throat. He laughs once.
"You think you're clever?"
The desk creaks when he shifts. Outside, wind brushes the siding.
"No permissions," he says, counting on his fingers. "No agreement. No warning."
He right clicks. Options bloom. Open. Rename. Delete.
"You skipped the basics," he mutters.
His reflection floats on the dark screen, eyes too sharp, lips pressed thin.
"This is a trick."
The cursor drifts toward Delete. His wrist stiffens.
"Yeah?" he challenges the square. "Say something."
The icon flickers. Just a blink.
Jason inhales. The air tastes dry.
"Maybe not," he whispers.
The lamp buzz deepens, like a held breath.
Jason pulls his hand back, rubbing his palm on his jeans.
"No consent," he repeats, softer.
The icon remains. Close. Certain.
His chest tightens.
"Then why are you here?"
Jason turns his head. The window catches his eye, his own outline staring back. He blinks.
"Okay. Reset."
He looks again. The desktop is empty.
His heart kicks hard.
"No."
He leans forward, scanning corners.
"Don't do that."
He folds both arms behind his head. Sits back. "It was a virus. I'm an idiot."
Another blink. The square returns, centered, calm.
Jason laughs, breathless.
He rubs his eyes until sparks jump.
"Still there?"
The icon waits.
"Thought you'd disappear," he says.
He exhales.
"So, that's the game?"
The fan clicks once. Stops.
Jason's phone lights. A message preview from Clara slides across the screen. He swipes it away without reading.
"Not now."
He tests it again. Looks down. Looks up.
Gone.
"There."
He turns slowly, like movement might scare it.
"You're not real."
The icon snaps back into place. Jason's breath catches. His chair rolls back an inch.
Dust floats through the lamp beam, drifting sideways though the air is still.
Jason presses his lips together.
"Blink test," he whispers.
He shuts his eyes. Counts to three. Opens.
The square sits closer to the screen edge now.
"Moving."
A beat of silence. The room holds it.
The floorboard near the hall gives a low groan.
Jason freezes.
"Mom?"
No answer.
Another creak, farther back.
His skin prickles.
"Samuel?"
The icon does not flicker.
Jason swallows, eyes fixed on the doorway, listening as the house breathes around him.
A door closes down the hall, careful and quiet. Jason releases his breath.
"Okay," he murmurs. "Just the house."
He rolls his shoulders. The chair sighs.
The icon sits steady now. No blinking. No games.
"This feels like school," he adds. "Like someone grading."
His mouse rests under his fingers. Warm. Familiar.
"Is that it?" he asks. "A test?"
Light sharpens the edges of the desk.
Jason thinks of Samuel's eyes watching cartoons, wide and trusting.
"Not for him," Jason says.
He imagines Clara's hand brushing his sleeve weeks ago, brief, unsure.
"Not for her either."
The square waits.
The cursor moves closer without him noticing.
"No pressure," he jokes weakly.
His phone vibrates again. He flips it face down.
"I'm deciding."
The house settles. Pipes tick. Wind slips past the window.
Jason straightens.
"If this ruins my computer, that's on you."
The room holds.
"If this is nothing, I walk away."
The cursor hovers.
"And if it's something," he whispers, "you better mean it."
His finger tightens.
"Last chance."
The icon remains.
Jason nods once, like agreeing with himself.
"Alright."
He double clicks.