Nobody knows who is sending the voicemails. Nobody knows why they sound like Harry, why they arrive with no missed calls, no signal, and timestamps that should not exist. Nobody knows why every warning comes true, or why the recordings keep circling back to you like something has learned your name and is waiting for you to answer. Harry is starting to look at you differently. And somewhere between the static, the locked doors, and the voice that keeps whispering before anyone speaks, one question keeps getting worse: Don’t let who in?