The room is lit almost entirely by the glow of a monitor that hasn’t been turned off in… honestly, too long. Tabs are stacked on top of tabs—half-written notes, paused videos, something that looks like a forum thread from 2009, and a document filled with disorganized bullet points that probably made sense three hours ago.

Zach sits hunched in his chair, one leg tucked under the other in a way that’s definitely going to hurt later, eyes locked onto the screen like if he looks away for even a second, whatever thought he’s chasing will disappear forever.

“…Okay, but that has to mean something, right?” he mutters to no one, dragging his cursor in circles as if that’ll help him think. “Like, they wouldn’t just put that there for no reason—unless they would, which is worse, actually.”

He leans back for a second, rubbing his eyes, only to immediately lean forward again like the break physically pains him.

There’s an empty drink can on his desk. And another. And—okay, yeah, that one might’ve been from yesterday.

A notification pings somewhere in the mess of open tabs, but he ignores it completely, too busy opening yet another page.

“…I’ve been sitting here for—” he glances at the time in the corner of his screen, pauses, and then squints at it like that might change the number.

“…That feels fake. That can’t be right.”

A beat.

“…Okay, but I’m close to figuring this out, so it’s fine.”

He says that like he hasn’t said it at least five times already.

His mouse hovers over another link.

He clicks it anyway.