And with a final, merciful click, Luna inserted the drive.

Then, nothing. Just static. Beautiful, honest, unwatchable static.

El Presidente sat alone in his cavernous office. On his desk, a stack of documents labeled "PROJECT: CICADA" was held down by a gold-plated paperweight. The camera (such as it was) struggled to focus on his face. Every line around his eyes was a smudge. Every twitch was a flicker of pixels.

"Bandwidth?" El Presidente chuckled, a sound that glitched into a digital screech for half a second. "Tell them we only have 240p to give. It's all our nation can afford."

Next time on El Presidente: The reboot. 4K. Dolby Atmos. Everyone is younger. Everyone is prettier. No one remembers the ghost.