A bullet‑pocked mile marker points nowhere as a church van misses the exit into an off‑map Appalachian preserve. Daylight is a dare; dusk is a verdict. The Foundation posts its decree in bone and bark: trespass judged at dawn.

The cut knifes through fern‑black hollows and sawtooth ridgelines—trail blazes that bleed sap, antler totems that swivel to watch, a ranger tower blinking SOS before the bulbs pop. Radios snag a numbers station; a field guide finds pages that weren’t printed.

Set‑pieces bite hard: a rope bridge that rotates and drops its center, prayer bells triggering a logfall avalanche, a root‑tunnel narrowing around a headlamp’s scream, and a quarry sprint under flare‑red smoke where footprints fill behind you. Gallows humor flickers, boots crunch, and every step is counted like a confession. Sound design saws between cicadas, cable‑snap, and the low purr of a buck‑saw you never see. Final sting: the ridge opens to a highway… and every milepost points back the way they came.