الصوت المشترك

**Part 1: The Descent** The house was silent, save for the refrigerator’s rhythmic *thrum-click* in the kitchen and the steady, insistent whir of my PC’s cooling fans. It was 3:00 AM, the hour where logic usually yields to impulse. Upstairs, the guest room was empty, my parents having left two days ago for a regional architectural conference. They’d kissed my forehead, smelled of expensive scotch and cedarwood, and promised to be back by the weekend. I stared at the black void of the monitor.