The plastic shell came off too easily. Behind it: a lens, a memory card, and a tangle of wires that didn’t belong in a “non-functional” detector. Along the ceiling line, another pinhole in a motion sensor. A third, buried in what we thought was a quirky decorative clock. Each pointed the same way: toward the bed, the bathroom door, the small couch where we’d been changing, laughing, arguing. Living.

We left before sunrise, bags half-zipped, hearts pounding with that sickening mix of violation and disbelief. The platform’s automated replies felt like a second betrayal, proof that the business model needed our smiles more than our safety. Now, travel means scanning vents and fixtures before we unpack. It means wondering how many strangers exist as files on drives they’ll never see, how many private lives are quietly archived, waiting to be watched again.