His roommate, a sensible engineering student named Kabir, was already cocooned in his blanket. “You’re going to get a virus,” Kabir mumbled, not looking up from his phone. “Or a notice from the cyber cell.”

On screen, Evana reached the edge of a clearing. A figure stepped out of the shadows. He was tall, pale, with sharp cheekbones and eyes the color of old honey. He wasn't Robert Pattinson. He looked like a Naga tribesman dressed in a vintage tweed coat that was too hot for the weather.

“I know,” Evana replied, her lines identical to the original. “I’m not afraid.”

“You should not be here,” the boy said, his voice a low static hum.

Rohan yanked the earphones out. He tried to close the laptop. The screen didn’t go black. Instead, the movie continued playing, reflected in the dead mirror of the blank LCD. Evana and the Not-Edward were dancing in a high school gym decorated with marigolds instead of streamers. But the other students weren't dancing. They were all staring directly at the camera. At him.

The download was unnervingly fast. Within minutes, the familiar, haunting piano notes of Carter Burwell’s score filled his cheap earphones. But the picture was wrong. It wasn’t the blue-tinged, rainy Forks, Washington. It was a monsoon forest. The trees were gnarled banyans, dripping with moss. And Bella wasn't Kristen Stewart. She was a Khasi girl named Evana, wearing a rumpled school uniform and walking barefoot down a red-mud path.

Then, a new tab opened by itself. It was a plain text file. Welcome, user_rohan_27. You have watched 0.7 GB of illegal content. Your location: Room 204, Hostel B. Your penalty is not a fine. It is a viewing. You will finish the movie. You will not close your eyes. If you stop watching, Edward will find you. Not the sparkly one. The hungry one. Rohan’s blood turned to ice water. He slammed the laptop lid shut. For one long, beautiful second, there was silence.

A voice, low and static, whispered through the keyhole.