Morning bled into the canopy in streaks of pale light, and the stream was already awake before I was. Comments rolled in like waves, half of them still laughing about last night.
"Goblin Pro incoming!"
"Imagine waiting 3–5 business days in the middle of a haunted forest."
"Nah bro, Drone Express gotchu."
Drone Express. Yeah, apparently even cursed woodland had delivery coverage.
Hours passed with the usual grind—roots underfoot, shadows creeping between trees, Nyx darting ahead with her tail like a flickering lantern. The witch hummed under her breath, keeping protective charms alive. All the while, the chat spammed delivery memes, tracking jokes, and impatient demands.
And then, right on cue, a buzzing hum split the silence.
We all looked up.
A squat little drone, painted in ugly neon-orange stripes, descended through the branches. It wobbled like it was drunk, then spat out a cardboard package that parachuted straight into my arms. The audience exploded in emoji applause.
"YO IT'S HERE!!!"
"Unboxing stream LET'S GOOOO."
"Pray for Ethan's sanity."
I set the box down and tore it open on camera. Inside lay the so-called treasure: Goblin Pro Cam, proudly stamped Made in Cheno in uneven letters. The casing felt like cheap plastic, light enough that I wondered if it was hollow.
The witch frowned. "This is… your magic device?"
"Magic scam, more like."
Nyx sniffed the lens and sneezed. I couldn't blame her. The build quality was insulting. The buttons clicked with the hollow sound of a toy, and the instruction booklet was half-translated nonsense.
Worse—when I tried to power it on, a blinking red light spat back at me.
No memory detected.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me…"
The stream howled with laughter.
"HAHA no SD card included?? Classic."
"Goblin Pro moment."
"Refund speedrun."
I sat there for a moment, rubbing my temples. No card, no recording. Which meant…
Slowly, I reached for the old broken cam. Its body was cracked, the lens useless, but inside it still held that strange black memory card. Solid, heavier than it had any right to be, its glossy surface unmarred despite years of use.
Sixteen megabytes, the label claimed.
Sixteen.
And yet—it had swallowed every second of my streams since the day I bought it. Thousands of hours. Thousands of files. And not even close to full.
Black tech. That was the only word for it.
I slid the card into the Goblin Pro. The fit was unnaturally perfect, like the thing had been designed around it. The red light blinked once… then turned green.
The camera came alive.
The feed surged into my overlay, sharper than expected, steadier than the broken lens had ever given me. The chat blew up in surprise.
"Wait… it actually works??"
"Quality looks kinda clean??"
"Goblin Pro redemp—oh no, don't jinx it."
I stared at the little green light, feeling a strange weight in my chest. It wasn't the Goblin Pro that was the miracle. It never was.
It was this card.
This impossible, unbreakable shard of black glass that had followed me from the very beginning.
And deep down, I knew—it wasn't just storing my memories.
It was watching me.