Zayaan stepped back from the terminal.
The screen was still blank.
Just a cursor blinking — steady, uncaring.
Like none of it had happened.
He rubbed his palms against his, trying to ground himself, the cold was curling around his spine like it knew where to hold on.
There had been something there.
A flicker — not on the screen, but just beyond it, in the glass.
His own reflection, split a second too late.
Like someone else had blinked after he did.
"Okay," he whispered, voice too thin to feel real. "Okay."
He reached out again — slower this time — and tapped the trackpad.
The screen stayed blank.
He hit escape. Nothing.
Backspace. Nothing.
Then, as if waiting for that exact breath of hesitation:
"Input recognized."
The cursor vanished.
Zayaan staggered back.
He hadn't typed anything.
He hadn't even touched the keyboard.
But something had been watching.
"Who's there?" he said — louder now, like volume would make the fear leave faster.
No answer.
Just static — a low hum rising from the speakers.
Not white noise — not even consistent.
It warped, bending and curving like it was trying to shape words.
Then, it stopped.
And in the silence that followed, a file opened.
One he hadn't clicked.
Labeled: 308–Echo.
He knew that name.
Not just the room.
Echo.
The same word used in the footage.
The file Arwa had seen.
He sat down slowly.
Hands trembling now, not from fear — not entirely — but from something deeper.
Recognition.
He'd heard this file before.
But it had never been recorded.