"485," Elias muttered, glancing at his station number. "Cute."

Every time Elias typed, the in the code shifted to 138 , then 139 . It was counting his keystrokes.

He assumed it was a prank from the day shift until he looked at the suffix: . In their system, i stood for Intermittent Variable , but the wave pattern attached to this file wasn't a star’s pulse. It was rhythmic, structured, and—to his horror—reacting to the room’s ambient noise.

He pulled the ethernet cable. The screen stayed live. He killed the main power. The monitors glowed a haunting, pale blue, still displaying that singular string: .

The graveyard shift at the Eklund Observatory was usually a silent affair, punctuated only by the hum of cooling fans and the occasional drip of a coffee machine. Elias, the lead data tech, liked it that way. He didn't like surprises.

Elias didn't turn around. He just watched the screen as the numbers began to count down.

Suddenly, the "i" began to blink. Elias realized it wasn't a variable at all. He leaned closer and saw the pixelated letter warp. It wasn't an 'i'. It was an eye.