The Smith house is quiet. You’ve been staring at the ceiling for hours. You don’t know this place yet — first night, strange house, brain that won’t stop. You just walk. And somehow you end up at a garage with the light on, and a man inside who doesn’t stop working — until he does. One look. Fast. The kind that takes everything in and gives nothing back. Then he tells you that you look like hell and goes right back to work. And somehow that’s how it starts.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​