The Flicker

The command center was a cathedral of cold light and whispered secrets. Luo Jian sat ensconced in its heart, a spider at the nexus of his digital web. A hundred screens glowed around him, each a window into Jakarta’s pulse—shadowed alleyways, glittering boardrooms, the flicker of neon-lit markets. The air hummed with the low-frequency drone of servers, a sound he’d long ago ceased to notice. Until the hum changed.

A hallway monitor blinked.

Corridor 7-East: Empty.

But the motion sensors screamed in jagged red arcs across his console.

Luo Jian leaned forward, his reflection fracturing across the screens. “Impossible.” His voice was a dry rasp, unused for hours. His fingers danced over the controls, rewinding the feed. The timestamp read 02:17:43—three minutes ago. The corridor lay still, sterile under fluorescent lights. Yet the sensors swore something had passed. Someone.