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The figures lowered their paddles in unison. The pixelated shimmer over their faces dissolved, revealing—nothing. Just empty sockets where eyes should be, and in each socket, a tiny screen playing a different moment of his life. His first bike ride. His mother’s laugh. The time he’d cried alone in a parked car.

Rohan bolted out of the apartment. He ran three blocks before realizing he’d forgotten his shoes. The streets were empty—no, not empty. At the end of the road stood a row of figures in charcoal suits, each holding a glowing paddle. Their faces were all pixelated differently, as if each was running a different corrupted video codec. mms.mazadigital

Rohan opened the MMS.