“Great,” he muttered. “Now I can watch myself watch myself.”
He mounted it on the bookshelf facing his desk. The PC software installed in seconds— Tapo Camera Control v2.4 . A live feed bloomed on his monitor: his own tired face, mid-yawn, staring back.
It blinked.
Leo tore it open in his dimly lit apartment. Inside: a compact white camera, a USB cable, and a tiny QR code card. “Plug and play,” the manual promised. “24/7 peace of mind.” tapo c200 pc
TAPO C200 PC — help me.
Another notification.
Leo hadn’t been awake at 2:47 AM. He pulled up the clip on his PC. “Great,” he muttered
Motion detected. 2:47 AM.
He unplugged it. The USB cable was warm. Too warm.
He never bought another smart camera. But sometimes, late at night, his PC would wake from sleep on its own. And the camera, still unplugged, still in its box in the closet, would emit a soft whir. A live feed bloomed on his monitor: his
Grainy, green-tinted night vision. His empty desk chair. A shadow passing behind it—too fast to be a person, too slow to be a glitch. Then the camera twitched. Panned left. Panned right. As if searching for something.
He reset the camera, changed the password, and pointed it toward the door instead. Next night. 3:15 AM.
This time, the feed showed the camera slowly tilting downward —toward the floor. Then the lens focused on something under his desk. A small, dark shape. Not a bug. Not dust.
He set motion detection, scheduled recording for work hours, and forgot about it. Three weeks later, the notification came.