The chat sidebar scrolled silently, but the messages were different now.
The screen filled with a grainy, low-angle shot. It was dark, but she recognized the shape of the bookshelf, the framed poster of Casablanca on the wall. It was her own apartment. The camera was looking up at her from inside her laptop’s own webcam. voyerhousetv
But then, her screen glitched.
She stared at her own terrified face reflected in the dark glass of her window. In the corner of the screen, the little red "LIVE" dot pulsed. The chat sidebar scrolled silently, but the messages
Clara turned up the volume, but the mics only picked up the hum of the refrigerator. She replayed the last ten seconds in her head, trying to read his lips. "Are you still there?" Or maybe, "I know you're there." It was her own apartment
On the chat sidebar, subscribers were typing.