"To everyone who’s watching—and I know you are—do not call the police. Do not post this to social media. The algorithm will eat it. Instead, I want you to look up. Look up at the nearest streetlight, traffic camera, or ATM. Wave. They’ve been watching you for eleven years. It’s time you watched back."

The feed cut to black. Then, in small white text on a black background:

I didn’t know if that was true. I still don’t. But I found myself walking toward the Avala road, joining a silent river of people leaving their cars, their apartments, their cafes. The city’s traffic lights had begun to flicker erratically. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed and then cut off mid-cry.

Luka staggered. The camera wobbled. And then, from behind him, a second voice—identical to his own—spoke softly into the microphone: