Doberman_studio_collection_2021_11_30_1080p_.zi... -

And behind him, standing in the shadows of his doorway, was the Doberman.

By the sixth video, Elias realized the "Studio" wasn't a place where films were made—it was a place where things were kept . The 1080p clarity was so sharp he could see the dust motes dancing in the air of the room on screen. He began to notice details in the background: a set of keys on a table that looked exactly like his own. A coffee mug with a chipped handle—the same one sitting on his desk right now.

Elias clicked the second file. Same hallway, but the lighting was a deep, nauseating red. The Doberman was sitting in the center of the frame. This time, there was a man standing behind it, his face blurred out by a digital glitch that seemed to pulse in time with Elias’s own heartbeat.

Elias didn't look back. He didn't have to. He just watched on the monitor as the dog in the video slowly began to open its mouth, and the speakers on his desk whispered his name in a voice that was half-growl, half-man.

Inside were twelve video files, each dated November 30, 2021.

The video opened. It wasn't a recording. It was a live feed of Elias’s own room, filmed from the corner of his ceiling where no camera existed. In the video, he saw himself sitting at the computer, hunched over, staring at the screen.