Leo froze. The reflection didn't. It leaned forward, its eyes narrowing with a curiosity that Leo didn't feel. On the screen, behind the reflected version of his desk, a door stood slightly ajar—a door that, in Leo's real room, was bolted shut.
The screen didn't show a splash logo. It didn't show a "No Signal" box. Instead, the 1366x768 resolution flickered into a perfect, crystal-clear feed of Leo’s own room.
"Don't," a voice crackled through the monitor’s tiny, tinny speakers. It wasn't Leo's voice. It sounded like static trying to scream. "I’ve been waiting for a port to open."
Tell me which direction to take, and I'll write the next chapter.
He needed that firmware. Without it, the vintage display he’d salvaged from the industrial wrecking yard was nothing more than a heavy slab of glass and aluminum. He’d spent three days scouring Chinese mirrors and Russian FTP sites, dodging malware and dead ends.