"No," Elias replied, his throat tightening. "Maybe the vibration from the AC?"
The cameras were gone, but the feeling of being watched had become a permanent resident. "No," Elias replied, his throat tightening
They began to dismantle the system, ripping cameras from the drywall and cutting power lines. But as Elias looked at the black, glassy eye of the last camera in the hallway, he saw his own reflection. He realized that the footage wasn't just on a thumb drive; it was already archived in a thousand servers across the globe, sold to advertisers, or tucked away in the hard drive of a stranger who knew the layout of their home better than they did. But as Elias looked at the black, glassy
Elias was at his desk when his phone buzzed. A notification from the kitchen camera: Person detected. He opened the app. The kitchen was empty. He shrugged it off as a shadow or a glitch in the AI. But that night, as they lay in bed, Sarah noticed the camera in their bedroom—the one they only turned on when they traveled—was tilted three degrees to the left. "Did you adjust the lens?" she asked. A notification from the kitchen camera: Person detected