In the dimly lit basement of a Brooklyn walk-up, Elias sat hunched over a laptop that hummed like a weary jet engine. The screen glowed with the cold, blue light of a dozen open tabs, but one stood out, blinking in the corner of a Russian forum:

Panic flared. He grabbed the power cable and yanked it from the wall. The screen went black. The silence of the basement felt heavier than the music ever had.

The sound from the speakers shifted again, now a perfect imitation of Elias’s own voice, recorded from his internal mic months ago, playing back in a twisted, slowed-down loop: "Just... one... more... track..."