Suddenly, the video began to tear. The tracking jumped, the colors inverted into a solarized mess of hot pink and black. The audio looped— seeing this... seeing this... seeing this... —until the player crashed, leaving Elias staring at his own reflection in the dark monitor. He checked the file size: .

The video was gone. But when he looked out his window at the suburban streetlamps, for a split second, the air seemed to shimmer with a faint, tropical green.

"Version 9, take one," Kat muttered, looking directly into the lens. Her eyes reflected the impossible light. "They aren't just watching the lights. They’re feeding on them."

As she spoke, one of the birds took flight. It didn't flap so much as glide on the magnetic currents, leaving a trail of sparkling dust that hung in the air like static. Kat reached out a hand, her fingers disappearing into the glow.

"Are you seeing this?" Kat’s voice was barely a whisper, competing with the humid buzz of the jungle.

The file sat in a folder labeled TEMP_BACKUP_2004 , wedged between a low-bitrate MP3 and a blurry photo of a cat. Elias clicked it. His media player shuddered, the screen flickering to life with the characteristic scan lines of an old MPEG-1 conversion. The video opened with a sharp, digital hiss.