On a whim, he leaned forward and pressed it.
Another flicker. Another photograph. This time, the view was from his window—outside, looking in. He could see himself in the image, hunched over the laptop, face pale. But the photo was dated: Tomorrow, 9:41 PM.
Not the usual glare shift or auto-brightness adjustment. This was a deep, rolling shudder, like a sheet being snapped over a mattress. The image of his desktop dissolved, replaced by a photograph. It was his desk. Exactly his desk—the chipped coffee mug, the tangled charging cable, the sticky note that read “Buy milk.” But the photo was taken from a different angle. Higher. As if someone had been standing behind his chair. laptop screen shot button
“Don’t turn around.”
He pressed PrtSc again.
Alex’s hand trembled over the keyboard. He wanted to close the laptop, but his fingers had a mind of their own. One more press. Just one more.
A third press. The screen went black, then displayed a grainy, low-light image. A hallway. His apartment’s hallway. And standing at the far end, barely visible in the shadows, a figure. Tall. Motionless. Facing the camera. Facing him . On a whim, he leaned forward and pressed it
Alex’s heart kicked against his ribs. He looked behind him. Empty room. Locked door.