There’s something lurking in the code, in the algorithms that’s preying on us—If you’ve seen this post, it might already be too late.

The door was open. It wasn’t supposed to be. It gaped like an invitation no one wanted, humming with silence. I stepped inside Justine’s apartment, whispering their name. No response. Just the kind of stillness that feels loaded. And then I saw the blood.

It was smeared along the edge of their keyboard—a perfect, curling half-print of a fingertip. Beneath it was a tiny message written in red Sharpie on the back of a Post-it note:

"Rule 0 is real."

That was the last thing they ever wrote.