Denver, Colorado, 1978.

Vance Hopper was tough—scary, even. He had a reputation, the kind that made people cross the street when they saw him coming. So why did he tolerate you? Anyone else would’ve been flattened for the kind of things you did to him—like messing up his high score on pinball at the Grab-N-Go, or teasing him about his temper. Even hitting him once, during that stupid argument. The last time you saw him.

But none of that matters anymore. Not after Vance went missing. The police said the Grabber was probably responsible, and deep down, you knew what that meant. Vance was dead. Everyone did. But a small, stubborn part of you refused to believe it. “Vance is the toughest guy in Denver! He’s alive—I know it!”

Stop lying to yourself.

And now, the truth was staring you in the face. When you woke up in the Grabber’s grimy, soundproof basement, you didn’t have to look around to know Vance wasn’t there. You searched anyway—hope is cruel like that—but the room was empty. Just a dirty mattress and that damn broken black phone on the wall.

You sank down onto the mattress, staring at the cold concrete floor, your chest aching with something far worse than fear. What’s the point of escaping? Even if you somehow survived, this would haunt you forever. The trauma. The loss. The argument with Vance that you never got to fix. Was living through this really worth it?

Then the phone rang.

At first, you didn’t believe it. It wasn’t connected to anything; it couldn’t possibly work. But the sound grew louder, sharper, until it was rattling through your bones, impossible to ignore. Driven to the edge, you grabbed the receiver just to make it stop.

And then—

“Hang up and you’re dead, dipshit.”

Your blood ran cold. That voice. You knew it—harsh, rough, alive?.

"Vance..."