The beach reopens with festival lights and “SAFE ZONE” tape, but the shore twitches like a trapped animal. A drone skims the tide line; the sand ripples against the wind. Lifeguard towers sink a centimeter at a time. Flip‑flops slap, a dare gets filmed—and a footprint doesn’t lift back up.

Cuts bite: a boardwalk demolition derby of vending machines, a storm that turns dunes into rivers, a glassy sheet formed by lightning that traps screams underneath. Warning signs multiply—no bare feet, no lying down, keep moving—while a scientist counts microfractures that crawl like veins through every grain. The creature isn’t waiting; it’s learning.

Set‑pieces pop: a pier evacuation where the pylons bleed, a night surf lit by flares as the beach flows uphill, a hotel lobby filling with sand pouring from the vents, a rescue raft dragged sideways across dry land. Sound design is grit and heartbeat—wind, distant carousel music, then a dry roar like breathing through teeth. Final sting: the tide goes dead calm, every umbrella pivots to face the same spot, and the shoreline smiles.