By the second hour, the clarity began to vibrate. The edges of the TV screen hummed with a low, violet light.
The box arrived with no return address, just a smudge of purple ink and a postmark from a city Leo couldn’t pronounce.
He pulled his eyelid wider. The "lens" had sprouted tiny, microscopic anchors that were stitching themselves into his capillaries. When he tried to tug, a jolt of white-hot agony shot through his skull, and for a split second, he didn't see the bathroom—he saw a flickering feed of a dark room, rows of servers, and a pair of hands typing on a keyboard.
