Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the progress bar. And somewhere, in a server he couldn’t trace, a copy of him—every message, every mistake, every quiet moment—was already seeding.

A download started. No URL. No file name. Just a progress bar moving at exactly one percent per minute. The label read:

He clicked Software only.

His hands went cold. He didn’t download it. But the software was already scanning. He saw filenames appear in the queue—things he’d never searched for. A photo he’d taken but never uploaded. A draft email he’d written at 3 AM and deleted before sending. A voicemail from his late father that the carrier had purged six years ago.

That was the first sign.