Vk - Nowhere Ranch

He scrolled faster. A live video feed was pinned at the top. The thumbnail was dark, just the suggestion of a shape. He clicked it.

And the porch light—the one he hadn’t fixed, the one with the shattered bulb—flickered on, casting a long, hungry shadow across the yard.

Leo spun. The laptop screen flickered. The VK page refreshed, showing a simple, clean profile: nowhere ranch vk

The video showed the bunkhouse. His bunkhouse. The camera angle was from the corner, near the old woodstove. The timestamp read: LIVE. He watched himself walk across the frame, a ghost in his own house, scratching his stubble. He didn't remember going to the bunkhouse tonight.

And somewhere, deep in the hard drive of the Circle N, a notification pinged. He scrolled faster

Leo closed the laptop. He sat in the dark, listening to the wind whistle through the fence wire like a melody he almost recognized. He thought about the well. About the handprint.

But on the third night, lonely and wired on cheap coffee, he dug out his old laptop. The satellite internet was a joke—a flickering candle in a cathedral of dark. Yet, one site loaded, grudgingly. He clicked it

"Leo arrived on Tuesday. He hasn't checked the well yet. Hasn't seen the handprint." Leo’s blood turned to ice. He looked at his own hands. There was dirt under his nails. He hadn't posted anything. He hadn't told anyone he was here.

In a town of twelve.