“I don’t need a map—I need morning.”

A trail‑cam clock blinks 24:00 as a volunteer rescue crew follows a detour into an off‑map hollow where bars die and signs speak in bone. The Foundation posts a single decree: reach the ridge by sunrise or belong. Every hour a horn moans from a different peak—roll call for the hunted.

Edits hit like cable snap and boot crunch: a church ruin where hymns trigger pendulum saws; a mine conveyor roaring to life beneath their feet; a culvert crawl lined with bottle glass; a water tower ladder that retracts halfway up. Flares paint the timberline blood‑red; magnesium “sunrise” blinds the desperate; tripwire bells hide in wildflowers. Radios snag a numbers station; trail blazes bleed sap; someone’s watch jumps ahead—time is a trap, too.

The palette is leaf‑black and rust; sound design twangs steel wire, cicada hiss, and the low purr of a buck‑saw you never see. Plans trade places with panic; gallows humor runs thin. The last sprint crests a ridge at 00:01… and mileposts start counting backward. Final sting: an arrow carved in bark points down the only path left—the one they came in on.