"The thing about digital files," the voice said, now sounding as if she were standing right behind his chair, "is that they don't just occupy space on your hard drive. They occupy space in the room. Sound is just vibration, after all. And if you vibrate the air just right..."

"Most people download the retail copy," she continued, her tone shifting from sweet to clinical. "But the RJ373050 file... that's the one I recorded while the fever was high. The one where I stopped following the script."

The track ended. The silence that followed was much, much heavier than before.

Suddenly, the hum of his PC fan died. The LEDs on his keyboard flickered and turned a deep, bruised purple. In the reflection of his darkened monitor, he saw a silhouette standing in the corner of his room—static-fringed and flickering like a corrupted video file.

"You found it," she said. Her voice was so crisp it felt like her breath was physically hitting his neck. "I was wondering how long it would take for someone to download this version." Elias frowned. This version?