As the face came into view, Elias felt a cold spike of adrenaline. The man in the video wasn't a stranger. He was wearing the same grey hoodie Elias was wearing right now. He had the same scar on his chin from a childhood bike accident.
In the video, the Elias-on-screen looked directly up at the camera lens. He didn't look scared. He looked exhausted. He raised a hand, pointing a single finger toward the top of the frame—directly at the viewer. The video cuts to black.
The circle of figures begins to hum. Elias couldn't hear it through his speakers—they were muted—but he could see the vibration in the image. The pavement around the man’s feet started to ripple like water. The man in the center finally began to turn. Slowly. Very slowly.
Elias leaned closer to the monitor. He tried to scrub the timeline back to see the transition, but the slider wouldn't move. The timestamp in the corner of the player was ticking upward, but the numbers weren't seconds. They were coordinates.
A figure enters from the bottom left. It’s a man in a dark coat, walking with a heavy, rhythmic limp. He stops in the exact center of the crossroads. He doesn’t look around. He doesn't look at his watch. He simply stands there, his back to the camera.
The camera is stationary. It’s a high-angle shot of a suburban intersection at dusk. The streetlights are flickering on, casting long, amber shadows across the asphalt. It looks like a standard traffic cam, but there are no cars. No pedestrians. Even the trees are unnervingly still.