He turned back to the screen. The playback bar was still moving, but the waveform had gone flat. He went to pause the track, but his mouse wouldn’t move. The cursor was locked in the center of the screen.

"I asked if you minded," the voice repeated. "I’ve been compressed in here for a long time. It’s very tight. I’d like to come out now."

The voice returned, this time deeper, vibrating through his high-end headphones until his jaw ached.

It had arrived in an unsigned email with no subject line. Most people would have hit delete, but Alex was a sound engineer—the kind of person who couldn’t leave an unplayed frequency alone. He double-clicked.

Alex flinched, spinning his chair around. His studio was empty. The soundproofing foam stared back at him, indifferent.

Suddenly, a voice cut through. It wasn’t a scream or a whisper; it was a woman’s voice, clear and uncomfortably close, as if she were standing right behind his left shoulder. "Do you mind?" she asked.

The file sat on Alex’s desktop, a stark, digital intruder: