The screens don’t blink.
That’s what hits me first, harder than the images themselves. No refresh lag. No static. No distortion that might soften the truth of what I’m seeing. Just clean, merciless clarity. Live feeds stitched together into a mosaic of violation so precise it feels surgical.
Elena moves through them in real time.
Bedroom.
Kitchen.
Balcony.
Different angles of the same truth, layered and simultaneous, like the building itself is watching her breathe.
She paces the length of the bedroom, barefoot, arms wrapped around herself like she’s cold even though the heater is on. She stops near the window, fingers brushing the glass, staring out at the night like it might offer answers. Then she turns back again, restless. Her steps are uneven, distracted. She keeps touching he
