The flicker of the neon "OPEN" sign reflected off the rain-slicked pavement as Elias stepped into the cramped, dust-scented sanctuary of the last independent video rental shop in the city. He wasn't looking for a blockbuster; he was looking for a ghost.
Back home, the disc spun with a high-pitched whine. The screen didn't open with a studio logo. Instead, a grainy, high-definition digital scan flickered to life. The year was 2003, but the clothes and the ballroom looked like a fever dream from the late 19th century. The "UNRATED" tag wasn't for violence or gore—it was for the sheer, suffocating atmosphere of the masquerade on screen.
As the 720p resolution rendered the fine details of the lace and the sweat on the dancers' brows, Elias realized the dancers weren't moving to the music. They were circling a single, obsidian sphere in the center of the room. Every time the "heartbeat" audio thudded, the sphere grew larger.
