Benny woke up before his alarm.
That alone wasn't strange.
What was strange was the silence.
Not the normal kind—the kind you forget about the moment you notice it—but a silence that felt intentional, as if something had been paused mid-process and forgotten.
His room looked the same. Same ceiling crack near the fan. Same curtain hanging slightly crooked.
Same phone on the bedside table.
Face down.
Benny didn't touch it.
He lay still, staring at the ceiling, listening.
Nothing.
No vibration. No whisper. No static crawling at the edge of his hearing.
For the first time since installing SPECTRA, the world felt… normal.
Too normal.
His chest tightened.
"Get up," he muttered to himself.
He swung his legs over the bed and stood.
The floor was cold. Real. Solid.
Bathroom. Sink. Mirror.
His reflection stared back at him, eyes slightly sunken from lack of sleep.
No flicker.
No crack.
No darkening.
"See?" he said quietly. "Nothing."
The mirror didn't answer.
That should've been reassuring.
It wasn't.
The day passed like it was trying to convince him of something.
School was loud. Annoying. Ordinary. Friends talked about exams, about videos, about things that existed fully in one layer of reality.
Benny laughed at the right times. Nodded.
Responded.
But every so often, he felt it—that pressure behind his eyes. Like the sense of being watched without any clear direction to look.
He checked his phone exactly once.
No notifications.
No vibrations.
SPECTRA didn't open itself.
That scared him more than when it did.
Night came slowly.
Benny lay in bed, lights on, phone still untouched.
He told himself he was done with it. That whatever had happened was stress, fear, imagination filling in gaps it didn't understand.
He turned the phone face down again.
Then rolled onto his side.
Closed his eyes.
Sleep didn't come.
Minutes passed.
Maybe more.
Then—
"—not yet."
Benny's eyes snapped open.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
The voice hadn't come from the phone.
It hadn't come from the room either.
It had come from inside the silence—like a sound slipping through a crack that shouldn't exist.
He sat up slowly.
The room looked the same.
Phone: still face down. Dark. Silent.
"Hello?" he whispered.
Nothing.
He swallowed.
"Just tired," he said to himself. "That's all."
He lay back down.
Turned his head toward the wall.
And froze.
"—you're listening now."
The voice was closer this time.
Not louder.
Closer.
Benny's breath caught.
He didn't move his head.
Didn't reach for the phone.
"Who's there?" he whispered.
A pause.
Then—
"You shouldn't answer."
His pulse spiked.
That wasn't the calm voice.
That wasn't the tired observer either.
This one sounded… uncertain. Like it wasn't supposed to be here.
"I didn't," Benny said. "I just—"
"You did," the voice replied. "You always do."
His mouth went dry.
"Where are you?" he asked.
Another pause.
Longer.
"…Near enough."
The word sent a chill through him.
Benny sat up abruptly and grabbed his phone.
The screen stayed dark.
No vibration.
No interface.
No SPECTRA.
"I didn't open anything," he said quickly. "I swear."
"I know," the voice replied.
That was worse.
Benny stood, phone clutched in his hand.
"You're not supposed to talk without the frame," the voice muttered.
The words felt wrong—half-whispered, half-regretful.
"What frame?" Benny asked.
Silence.
Then—
"Forget I said that."
His chest tightened. "No. You said it. You don't get to take it back."
The voice exhaled shakily.
"This isn't clean," it said. "You're bleeding through."
"Bleeding what?"
Another voice murmured faintly underneath the first.
Too faint to understand.
Benny's grip tightened on the phone. "Why can I hear you?"
A longer pause this time.
Then, reluctantly:
"Because you were observed too long."
The air in the room felt heavier.
"You don't need the phone anymore," the voice continued. "Not for this part."
Benny's stomach dropped.
"I don't want that," he said immediately.
"I know."
The voice sounded almost sympathetic.
"That doesn't stop it."
The lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Benny flinched.
The phone screen lit up on its own.
Not fully.
Just enough to show one line of text.
DO NOT ENGAGE WITHOUT FRAME
Benny stared at it.
"I didn't do anything," he whispered.
"I did," the voice said.
The phone vibrated once.
Sharp.
Angry.
The air pressure shifted.
Suddenly, Benny felt it—like invisible fingers pressing against the sides of his head, trying to align something.
"Stop," he said. "Stop, stop—"
"Don't answer it," the voice said urgently.
"Whatever you hear next—don't answer."
Another sound entered the room.
Lower.
Deeper.
Not a voice exactly—more like intent wrapped around sound.
Benny's knees weakened.
The phone vibrated harder.
FRAME REQUIRED
The deeper presence pressed closer.
Benny squeezed his eyes shut.
"I'm here," he whispered without thinking.
Everything stopped.
The pressure vanished.
The sound withdrew.
The lights stabilized.
The phone went dark.
The room exhaled.
Benny collapsed onto the bed, gasping.
The voice was silent.
Then, quietly:
"…That was a mistake."
Benny's hands shook. "I didn't even know what I was answering."
"That's why it works," the voice replied. "Intent matters less than recognition."
"What did I do?" Benny whispered.
The voice didn't answer immediately.
When it did, it sounded farther away.
"You acknowledged something that wasn't framed."
The phone buzzed once.
Soft.
Almost disappointed.
Benny stared at the ceiling.
"Am I… different now?" he asked.
A long pause.
"Yes," the voice admitted.
"How bad?"
Another pause.
"…You'll start hearing us more."
Benny closed his eyes.
"And seeing?"
Silence.
That was answer enough.
The voice spoke one last time, barely audible.
"Next time, don't answer."
Then it was gone.
The phone remained dark.
But the silence—
The silence no longer felt empty.