The phone vibrated. Not the game’s haptic feedback—an actual call. The screen read: .
His heart backhanded his ribs. He blinked again—a nervous, involuntary spasm.
No health bar. No inventory. Just a single instruction in the corner: Do not blink.
A convent corridor. Narrow. Candles that didn’t flicker. And at the far end, the silhouette of a nun in a black habit, facing the wall.
Leo threw the phone onto his bed. It bounced, clattered to the carpet, and kept ringing. He watched from his desk chair as the call connected on its own. A voice came through the speaker, thin and metallic, like an old rotary phone across a century:
He disconnected his phone from the Wi-Fi, turned on airplane mode, and slid the file onto a burner device—a cracked Moto G he’d bought with cash at a gas station.