"It’s a loop," Kenji whispered, trying to laugh. But his hand, gripped tight around the mouse, wouldn't move.

Kenji didn't turn around. He didn't have to. He saw the reflection in his own darkened monitor: a pair of pale, multi-jointed hands reaching out from the shadows of his own closet, matching the movements on the screen perfectly.

The video didn't end with credits. It ended with a prompt, flashing in a deep, arterial red:

He tried to close the browser tab, but the cursor remained frozen on the animated man’s face. The character on the screen turned around, his jaw unhinging in a silent, jagged scream.

As he clicked, the audio didn't start with the usual upbeat intro. Instead, there was a wet, rhythmic thumping—like a heavy rug being beaten against a cellar floor.

The animation was crude, vibrating with a hyper-detailed realism that made Kenji’s skin prickle. It featured a man sitting exactly where Kenji was sitting, in a room that mirrored his own, right down to the half-eaten ramen cup on the desk. On the screen-within-the-screen, the animated man leaned closer to his monitor, his eyes widening until the whites were mapped with bursting capillaries.