"My father is down there. I can hear his heartbeat on the frequency. But there’s something else. Something that’s been waiting. When I open this door, the Mirror will see me. It will try to reflect me—to copy my signal, my voice, my face. If you hear two Lukas, don’t believe the second one."
"The Mirror doesn’t broadcast. It listens. Every call, every text, every photo you’ve ever taken—it’s all been reflected back into a private network. But my father hid a backdoor. A live mobile stream keyed to his own biometrics. His heartbeat, to be precise. As long as he lives, the stream lives. And tonight, I’m going to free him."
I didn’t answer. But somewhere deep inside the silent, flickering city, TV Kanal 5 kept broadcasting. And everyone who had ever watched kept watching, even with their eyes closed, even in their dreams, even long after their batteries died.
He pushed the door open. The audio erupted into a chorus of whispers—dozens, hundreds of overlapping voices, all speaking at once, all saying different things, but somehow all saying the same name: "Luka. Luka. Luka."
The feed shifted to a live map of Belgrade, with a pulsing red dot moving along the E75 highway toward the Sava River. A countdown appeared: .