Insomnia blooms like a plague after a viral sleep‑therapy app slips a hidden lullaby into millions of nightly routines. A burned‑out neuroscientist, a night‑shift EMT, and a teenage lucid‑dreamer triangulate the source as micro‑naps start stealing people mid‑sentence. The cut ricochets from EEG skylines to tunnel‑vision panic: dash‑cams drifting at 3:03 a.m., an elevator that opens to last night, a classroom where every head drops in perfect rhythm. Wallpaper peels into waveforms; eyelids flicker with frames of something counting—one, two—just off the beat.

Rules bend. Don’t blink becomes don’t breathe. White noise turns predatory. Set‑pieces hit hard: a stadium mass‑sleep event collapsing to silence, a hospital blackout mapped by pulse‑ox glow, a commuter train where the conductor nods off and the lights learn to pulse like a metronome. Our lucid‑dreamer dives first, tethered by a heart‑rate alarm and a rope of words her friends keep reciting. The app updates by itself; the countdown tattoo migrates wrists. Sound design weaponizes hush—fan hum, ringtone warble, ceramic fingernails on glass—before the title slams in like a heartbeat.

Final sting: every phone on the street lights up with the same push alert—Close your eyes—and the screen inhales.