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On screen: six windows, six faces, some lit by kitchen fluorescents, others by dim bedroom lamps. They all looked exhausted, confused, and a decade older than the last time they’d all been together.
The typing indicator appeared.
“The desktop app.”
Priya: “I can’t. I can’t be back in this room.”
But the desktop app had other plans. It clicked Y by itself.
Marcus tried to type an apology, an explanation—but his messages vanished the moment he hit send. He wasn’t a participant anymore. He was just the host. The desktop app had made him a spectator.
A new message appeared, not from any user, but from the system itself: