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“You didn’t download me, Leo. I downloaded you.”

He unpaused.

Complete.

The film skipped. Suddenly, Dayo was standing in Leo’s apartment. Not a set dressed to look like his apartment. His apartment. The same crack in the window seal. The same stack of vinyl records by the turntable. The same half-empty mug from this morning.

Leo’s speakers emitted a low-frequency hum. Not part of the mix. Something ambient, accidental—or perhaps intentional. He turned up the volume. Beneath the hum, a voice. His mother’s voice. She had died six years ago. He was certain of it.

He paused the video. Scrubbbed back. Normal. The actress had high cheekbones, dark eyes, a small scar on her left brow. Nothing like him.

And then she spoke, looking directly into the lens—directly at him.

But when the woman on-screen turned toward the voice, Leo knew her face.