A programmer in Seoul, tasked with building a filter for illegal content, began having the same dream every night. He was sitting in a white plastic chair. A bare bulb overhead. He was waiting for someone to tell him what happened next.

And somewhere, in a server farm buried under a mountain, or a hard drive at the bottom of a river, or simply in the corrupted memory of a man who can no longer look at a little girl without checking first if she's real—the video plays on. Not in pixels. In people.

But a ghost doesn't need a file to haunt you.

They called it "Daisy's Destruction," though no one ever admitted to watching it. It existed in the space between a rumor and a scar—a title whispered in dark forums, a URL that expired faster than you could copy it. The name itself was a misdirection, a piece of pastoral poetry bolted to a nightmare. Daisy. A flower, a child’s name, a beginning. Destruction. The end of everything.