The dim glow of the computer screen was the only light in Artyom’s small apartment. It was 3:00 AM, the hour when the internet feels less like a library and more like a graveyard. He stared at the blinking cursor in the search bar, his fingers hovering over the keys.

The file sat on his desktop, unnamed except for a string of Cyrillic characters. He double-clicked it. His media player opened, but the progress bar didn't move. There was only silence.

Then, a voice. It wasn't music. It was a flat, synthesized whisper that seemed to come from inside his own headphones.

Should I focus on a ?

Artyom looked at the screen, then at the dark doorway of his bedroom. His finger clicked.