Heat haze shivers over a shuttered meatpacking town as a land auction drags old sins into daylight. A pull‑cord coughs, the generator stutters, and the saw’s first scream punches a hole in the noon.

Influencer house‑flippers, a stubborn local paramedic, and a deputy with a ledger of names collide inside Texas architecture made for panic: cattle chutes that funnel like mazes, a funeral parlor with doors that don’t open the same way twice, wind‑farm blades strobing over fields of rust. Leatherface is never announced—he’s a pressure front: footprints that arrive before the body, a shadow bending corrugated tin, a breath behind burlap.

Sound is the weapon—cicadas, chain rattle, then that teeth‑grinding whine—while the camera finds horror in ordinary things: butcher paper, rope, a pantry hook. Set‑pieces bite hard: an ambulance flip on a caliche road, a grain‑elevator “avalanche,” and a kitchen tiled in white that won’t stay that way. Sun‑bleach, rust, and practical gore—no nostalgia, just nerve. Final sting: the metal door slides, and the world forgets to breathe.