A person finds a TikTok live stream. The stream shows their own living room.

Mia was waiting for her train. The station was empty at 11:45 PM. She was tired after a long shift at work. Her phone was dying. She had twenty minutes to kill before the last train home. She opened TikTok. Just to pass the time. The first few videos were boring. Dancing. Jokes. A cat falling off a couch. She almost closed the app. Then she saw a live stream with a weird title. "LIVING ROOM – NIGHT 47" The thumbnail was dark. But she could see a couch. A lamp. A rug. Something about it looked familiar. She tapped the screen. The live stream loaded. It showed a living room. Quiet. Still. The only light came from a small lamp in the corner. The video quality was clear. Too clear. Like a professional camera. Mia's stomach dropped. That was her couch. Her lamp. Her rug. The crack in the wall from when she moved the bookshelf last year. The coffee stain on the carpet that she could never clean. She was watching her own apartment on TikTok Live. Her hands started shaking. She looked at the viewer count. 1,024 people watching. No comments. No likes. No hearts. Just over one thousand people sitting in silence, watching her empty living room. Mia checked the stream info. The account name was a string of numbers. No profile picture. No bio. No other videos. Just this live stream. Started 47 days ago. She called her neighbor. No answer. She called the building super. No answer. She tried to report the stream. The button didn't work. Then the video changed. The camera moved. Slowly. Smoothly. Like someone was carrying it. It panned across the living room. Past the kitchen. Past the bathroom. Down the hallway. Toward her bedroom. The bedroom door was open. The camera went inside. The stream showed her bed. Her pillows. Her nightstand. The photo of her mother on the wall. The camera stopped at her closet. The door was closed. A sound came from the stream. Soft. Like breathing. Someone was in the closet. Mia's train arrived. She didn't get on. She called 911 with shaking fingers. "Someone is in my apartment," she whispered. "I'm watching them on a live stream." The operator asked for her address. She gave it. The operator said a car would be there in ten minutes. Mia stayed on the call. She watched the screen. The closet door opened. A hand came out. Pale. Thin. Long fingers. The hand waved at the camera. Then the stream showed the chat for the first time. Messages started pouring in. Hundreds of them. All the same. "She's watching." "She's watching." "She's watching." The camera turned around. It showed the bedroom door. Someone was standing there. Tall. Dark. No face. Just a shadow with a phone in its hand. The shadow lifted the phone. Mia's screen changed. The live stream ended. A new message appeared. "Stream ended by host. See you soon." Mia ran out of the train station. She flagged down a police car two blocks away. Two officers went to her apartment. They searched every room. The apartment was empty. No one was there. But the closet was warm. And on her bed, placed carefully on the pillow, was a phone. A cheap phone. The screen was open to TikTok. The account was still logged in. 1,024 followers. Forty-seven previous live streams. All from inside her home. All while she was asleep or at work. The last video was saved in the phone's gallery. It was filmed from inside her closet. The timestamp was three minutes ago. It showed Mia standing in the train station. Watching her phone. Screaming. She never slept in that apartment again. She moved to a new city. New building. New locks. But last night, she got a notification on her new phone. "Someone started a live stream you might like." The thumbnail showed her new living room.