It began, as all great disasters do, with a forum post.

He never played a Mario game again. But sometimes, when he brushed his teeth at 2 a.m., the faucet would drip in 4/4 time. And the water in the sink would hold its shape a second too long—a question mark, hovering just before the drain.

Leo reached for the power button. His hand passed through it. The button was still there, physically, but his fingers felt no resistance—as if the air around his PC case had become a different density. Numb.