Chapter Two: The Seven Seconds Every Camera Forgot

Zhao looked at Lin and moved his lips. This time the cameras captured his voice. “They aren't taking people. They're waiting for people who can see.” In the next frame, the chair was empty. His locator struck the table. The door had not opened. Old paper and ozone scented the air. Each recording had lost seven seconds, but not the same seven. Xu assembled the missing intervals into seven disconnected images: white tiles, a shadowless lamp, a station sign reading LINLAN, Zhao's back, a queue of people, an upraised hand, and eyes staring into the camera. Those eyes belonged to a young woman in a yellow courier helmet. A scar crossed her left eyebrow. Lin's feed refreshed.