Hello, Friend

The Subject, John Ward, receives an email presenting Praemus as a cheaper, faster, and better way to use the internet. Intrigued, he places an order for the device and its extensive manual. He eagerly considers how the new gadget could streamline his online life.

The package includes the Praemus connection unit and the manual. He sets it up and shares the device with his circle of friends, hoping to showcase the promised improvements. The device promises a simpler, more seamless online experience.

Praemus proves disruptive as he starts emailing about problems. The unit claims he was online for about 200 hours in a single week, while his monitor vibrates and flashes with static. The screen sometimes shuts down, forcing him to post updates from an internet cafe.

The Praemus company replies with a curt note saying this is probably just a hiccup and suggests rebooting the computer. They offer little real assistance and no one remains at the Praemus office to help him. The lack of support deepens his frustration as the problems persist.

He admits he doesn’t know how to switch the system off and feels increasingly isolated. A trusted friend who normally helps him with tech is reluctant to intervene, leaving him to cope alone with the mounting malfunctions. The situation feeds a growing sense of helplessness.

The cat goes missing, and Praemus sends another intricate email explaining what to do next. He combs through the manual as the correspondence grows more cryptic, heightening the sense that something is actively manipulating his life. The missing pet raises the personal stakes for him.

His young daughter experiments with matches, adding literal danger to an already tense situation. The device’s influence casts a shadow over the family, fueling fear and parental guilt. The stakes expand beyond digital disruption to real-world risk.

When he tries to remove the unit, a terrifying glow from the Praemus logo sears his skin. He complains about ongoing bills and the company’s refusal to help, and the nightmares around the device become ongoing. The glow signals the device’s invasive power.

A strange "drinking sound" seems to emanate from the device, and the unit even tries to connect with his head to pitch Praemus Life Insurance. The line between product and personal invasion grows blurrier as the device asserts itself. The patient fears it is becoming sentient or malicious.

The Subject reveals that other Praemus users he recommended are also harmed, with burning hands and moving units. Despite the risk, he decides to purchase the Praemus Life Insurance, marking a grim capitulation to fear. The campaign around the device intensifies.

Around this time, his wife leaves a Dear John letter on the computer monitor, taking their daughter and telling him not to try locating them. The family fracture adds a personal horror to the increasingly tech-dominated life. He is left more alone with the device’s control.

He threatens legal action via another email as the machine freezes in response to his fury. He bangs the keyboard with his head, and a new setup window appears with options that seem to target his life choices. When he toggles any option, the computer shuts down and he suffers a heart attack.

While in hospital, Praemus sends an apology email to his wife for the heart attack. The heart monitor flickers and a doctor notes he should write to the company as well. The scene underscores the device’s totalizing reach and the fragility of his life.

Back at home, the Praemus unit finally powers down and disconnects from the computer. In a small thread of hope, his cat returns, suggesting some residual balance returning to life. But the trauma of the ordeal lingers as he contemplates the new reality of connectivity.

After awakening, the struggle seems over, but the consequences of the Praemus experiment linger in his life and mind. He faces a world that feels both more connected and more threatening than before, unsure what comes next. The film closes on a note of uneasy balance between technology and humanity.