Elias reached for his headphones, but stopped. He could still hear the humming, faint and distant, coming from inside his own throat.
In reality, Elias knew he had locked it. He didn't turn around. He couldn't. His eyes were locked on the reflected version of his room. A pale hand, thin and elongated like a bundle of white cords, gripped the edge of the reflected doorframe.
Elias sat in the absolute quiet of his apartment, his heart hammering against his ribs. The monitor flickered. The silver surface vanished, replaced by the mundane blue light of Windows. The terminal window was gone. The .7z file was gone.
Elias scoffed, chalking it up to "creepypasta" marketing from a decade ago. He double-clicked the audio log.