The spheres are in alignment. We did not align them—they drew together of their own volition. The portal hums at a frequency that vibrates the marrow of our bones. Three of our researchers have scratched their own eyes out, claiming they can still see the spheres spinning inside their skulls. The visual field is collapsing.
The threshold has cracked. The signals we compiled were not code; they were a calling. The air in the facility has turned cold and smells of ancient salt and damp soil. The geometry of the screens has begun to warp. It is too late to close the door.