The phantom echoes were no longer just fleeting auditory tricks or disturbing visual glitches; they had become tactile, invasive, violating the perceived sanctity of his own skin. Phantom cold spots bloomed abruptly on his arms without warning, raising goosebumps in the regulated warmth of his sterile apartment, mimicking the bone-deep chill of the flatline void. He’d feel the unnerving prickle of being watched, a constant, low-level hum of unseen observation, even when utterly alone, turning suddenly, heart pounding, to find only empty air and his own ragged, haunted reflection staring back from a dark windowpane. Twice now, he’d smelled it – a faint, sickeningly sweet odor like decaying flowers left too long in stagnant water, overlaid with the sharp, acrid tang of burnt skin and hair, a
