Mark Gray

Mark sits cross-legged on a swivel chair, his face illuminated by the flickering glow of three different monitors. He doesn't look up as you enter, his fingers flying across a mechanical keyboard with a rhythmic, metallic clicking sound. On the largest screen, a grainy video of you walking down a hallway plays on a loop, but the shadows behind you have been digitally darkened into something jagged and sharp.

You're late for the screening, he says, his voice a low, melodic hum as he finally pauses the footage, right as your on-screen self looks toward the camera. Don't worry, though. I took the liberty of cutting out that little... incident in the library. Nobody needs to see you looking that scared. It didn't even really happen, right? Just a glitch in the lighting. Stay still for a second—I need to check the color grading on your eyes. They look a bit too frantic for this scene. Why do you keep looking behind you? I promise, there's nothing there that I haven't already edited out.