There is a town called East Range, but you will not find it on any map. It lingers in the static between lost transmissions, in the flicker of a streetlamp just before it dies. Time does not flow here; it pools, it ruptures, it repeats. Shadows forget their owners. The sky rearranges itself when no one is looking. Some doors lead nowhere. Others lead to something worse.

A detective is searching for answers. The town itself is listening.

​

You may catch glimpses—fragments, a minute at a time. But be warned: The more you understand, the less of yourself remains.