Outside, a heavy Michigan rain lashes against the glass, masking the suffocating silence of the night.

On the floor sits an old, wood-paneled dial radio. For days, an underlying hum has been vibrating through the air of the house—an intrusive, persistent frequency that seems to warp the very atmosphere of the room. The plastic dial sits frozen between stations. Instead of normal white noise, the harsh static periodically drops into a deep, rhythmic thrumming. The speaker grid seems to breathe, warm and heavy, carrying a layered, echoing audio signal that sounds as if it is being transmitted through deep water.

The air in the bedroom feels rapidly humid, thick with the smell of old sand and ozone, tasting faintly of iron. The faint green light of the radio display reflects off the rain-slicked windowpane, casting an eerie glow over the personal belongings scattered across the space.

Outside, past the tree line where the dense woods swallow the edge of town, a piercing crimson light pulses silently from the depths of the Hills Grove mine—a beacon from the Red Dimension, broadcasting its signal out into the dark, waiting for someone to listen.