Lena’s phone buzzed again. Not a call. A message. It played the ringtone—a two-second clip of a scratched vinyl record. Her best friend, Marco. “Did you get it yet??”

The haptic buzz against her wrist jolted Lena awake. It wasn’t the jarring blare of a 2020s alarm, but a soft, three-dimensional thrum —the haptic pattern. Everyone had it. It felt like a cat purring directly into her bones.

A girl in the corner whispered, “Is that… the Aris original?”

She deleted it.