Nothing happened. The tablet rebooted, faster than usual. The home screen was pristine—no flicker, full battery, and the “11” file was gone. He shrugged, closed the tablet, and went to make coffee.

Eleven minutes. Missing.

He stood perfectly still. Then he heard it—a faint, wet sound from the living room. A sound like someone flipping through pages made of skin.

The tablet in the other Leo’s hand showed a new message:

The screen didn’t go black. It went deep . A color he couldn’t name—between ultraviolet and the sound of a forgotten dream. Then, text crawled across the display in a font that seemed to lean away from his gaze: