Digital Collector

In the bustling airport of Shanghai, where crowds of tourists swarmed like ants, stood a man named Marcus. In his backpack, there was only an old laptop—smooth, silver, without a single scratch. Marcus traveled light: no luggage, no plans, just an eternal search for new "specimens."

He sat down on a bench in the waiting area and opened the laptop. From the speakers poured a strange sound—a mixture of whispers, laughter, and distant cries, woven into a hypnotic melody. It wasn't music in the usual sense; it lured like a siren, making heads turn. Nearby sat a young guy with headphones—a tourist from Europe named Liam. He took off his headphones and leaned closer.

"Hey, dude, what track is that? Sounds cool but creepy," Liam asked, peering at the screen.

Marcus smiled out of the corner of his mouth, not taking his eyes off the keyboard.

"Want to take a look?" he whispered, opening the lid wider.

Liam's eyes lit up with curiosity. He moved closer, and at that moment, the laptop screen flashed with blinding light. The air around vibrated, and Liam's body began to melt like pixels in a bad video. With a quiet sob, he disappeared inside the device, adding his voice to the chorus. Marcus slammed the lid shut, stood up, and calmly headed to the boarding gate. No one noticed—in an airport, people disappear every minute.

Marcus had been collecting people for years. It all started with an experiment: he was a programmer obsessed with the idea of creating an "eternal chorus"—a symphony of human souls trapped in code. The laptop, his creation, fed on curiosity. The sounds were the voices of the victims: the whisper of a banker from London, the laughter of a student from Rio, the cry of a mechanic from Berlin. Each new "specimen" made the melody richer, more complex. In the past, kidnappers hid children in sacks, dragging them through forests. Now the sack was digital—compact, smart, and it pulled in the prey itself.

Next stop—Tokyo. In the overcrowded subway, Marcus opened the laptop again. The sounds spread through the car: now with Liam's accent added, muttering something about "cool tracks." A middle-aged woman named Sophia, an office clerk with a bag over her shoulder, couldn't resist.

"Is that... a podcast? Or a game? Can I take a look?" she asked, pushing closer.

"Of course, come over," Marcus replied, opening the lid.

The light flashed, and Sophia disappeared, her voice weaving into the chorus—a high, nervous tone. Marcus closed the laptop and got off at the next station, dissolving into the crowd of neon lights.

But that evening in the hotel, something went wrong. When Marcus opened the laptop to "listen" to the collection, the chorus sounded louder, more chaotic. The voices argued, screamed, demanding freedom. Liam whispered: "This isn't a track, it's a prison." Sophia added: " Let us out." Marcus tried to turn it off, but the screen flickered, and the light turned against him.

"Want to take a look?" the chorus whispered in his own voice.

The lid opened wider, and Marcus felt his body melting. The laptop slammed shut on its own. Now in the backpack lay only it—empty, quiet, waiting for a new owner. And inside, in the digital world, the collection was finally complete: with the voice of the collector himself leading the chorus in an eternal symphony.

End? Or the beginning of a new hunt...