The tape clicks; a map unfolds—an abandoned water‑treatment plant wired like a nervous system. Tobin Bell’s voice pours through rust and steam while masks drop on a circle of strangers whose secrets rhyme too well. Traps feel intimate and surgical: the Glass Lung fogging with acid unless two share breath; the Mercy Mill that grinds faster when you lie; a balance beam over broken mirrors where each truth removes a plank.

Shawnee Smith’s Amanda lingers at the edges, protector or prison guard, and a new set of steady hands arranges tools with devotion that chills. Edits snap on gear teeth and heart monitors; the score is cassette hiss over bone‑dry drums. Flashbacks braid motive to method until the floor plan reads like a confession letter. When the final recorder says “Play me,” the room realizes the game started three choices ago—and the door they kept ignoring was the one they built.