Below the message, a live feed from his own webcam: his own tired, horrified face, staring back.

Leo was a ghost in the machine. Not a hacker, not a coder—just a broke film student with a dying laptop and a dream that weighed more than his tuition bill. His final project was due in seventy-two hours: a ten-minute documentary on the last independent bookstore in the city. He had the interviews, the B-roll of dust motes dancing in afternoon light, and a voiceover so raw it made his own throat tighten.

The screen flickered. Just once.