Tv M6 Direct -

Elara waved. The TV-Elara waved back, but with a slight, chilling delay.

Elara didn't breathe. Behind her, the wardrobe door creaked open.

The TV-Elara's lips moved, but no sound came from the set. Instead, a single line of white text scrolled across the bottom, like a news ticker. Tv M6 Direct

The word wasn't in a corner or an electronic program guide. It was written into the grey, as if carved by a fingernail on the inside of the glass. Then, the grey parted.

The screen flickered. Not the usual static of a dead channel, but a deep, liquid grey, like the surface of a restless sea at midnight. Elara leaned closer, the dusty remote forgotten in her hand. The old M6 television set, a relic from her grandmother's attic, hadn't been plugged in. She had checked. Twice. Elara waved

The M6 signal wasn't a channel. It was a direct line. A live feed from a second of the future, a splinter in time maintained by something that needed her alive. The shape in the reflection took a single, silent step toward the TV-Elara.

The screen went grey again. Then black. Then the faint hum of a truly dead television filled the room. Behind her, the wardrobe door creaked open

A cold, skeletal finger traced her spine. Every instinct screamed to turn, but the command on the screen felt less like advice and more like a law of physics. She stared, paralyzed, at the image of her own bedroom. And that's when she saw it.

Yet, there it was. Direct.

She stared at the dead black glass of the M6, waiting for it to come back, to tell her what to do next. But it stayed dark. She was alone now. Direct had been cut. And the thing in the wardrobe was learning to move in real time.

A room appeared. Not a studio, but a bedroom. Her bedroom. The camera—or whatever was on the other side—was positioned where her wardrobe stood, pointing directly at her bed. She saw herself, sitting cross-legged on the rug, staring back at the blank TV screen. Only, on the TV, the version of her was two seconds ahead.