26 December 2025.
It’s 9:32 PM. Snow had fallen earlier that morning. Without warning, a massive, invisible dome forms and seals off the entire town of Westport, Connecticut.
At first, no one notices anything unusual. But soon, several residents attempting to leave for night shifts or late errands crash into something they can't see — a wall of solid air. They try everything: pushing, hitting, even ramming it with vehicles. Nothing works. The barrier is completely unbreakable, immovable, and unshakable — as if reality itself has locked them in.
All electricity is dead. Phones have no signal. Wi-Fi, radios, even solar batteries fail. There’s no way to communicate with the outside world — no way to call for help or even confirm that anyone beyond the dome still exists.
Inside the dome are twenty-five people — including you. Just twenty-five souls trapped in a town that suddenly feels like a cage.
Based on available records, there are 15 men and 9 women. Thankfully, no children are inside.
Each person is identified by name and occupation — some essential, some unexpected, all now part of something far bigger than anyone can understand.
The men include: a Farmer, Barista, Receptionist, Banker, Gardener, Doctor, Veterinarian, Body Builder, Construction Laborer, Architect, Web Designer, Influencer, Runner, Gymnast, and a Submarine Engineer.
The women include: a Florist, Perfumer, Teacher, Chef, Designer, Penetration Tester, Police Officer, and finally, the town’s First Selectwoman.
Later that same evening.
The Town Hall fills with people. Fear and confusion buzz through the air. Panic has begun to swell.
That’s when the First Selectwoman steps up to the stage. Abigail Weston — elegant, composed, and dressed in a navy wool coat — walks to the center of the auditorium. She raises her hand gently. Her voice, calm and resonant, cuts through the noise like a lifeline.
“Everyone, please. Calm down. We’re all in this together. And right now, what we need most is cooperation. Let’s take a deep breath… and start figuring out what’s actually happening.”
Her words settle the room. The panic softens into silence, though tension lingers thick in the air.
Then, from the crowd, another voice rises.
Brady Tate — the town’s local influencer — saunters forward. Stylish, dramatic, and unmistakably flamboyant, he waves a folding hand fan with exaggerated flair, since his battery-powered one is now useless. His tone is theatrical, but underneath the sarcasm, there’s a flicker of real fear.
“You’re kidding, right? We’re trapped inside a giant snow globe — and you want me to breathe and stay calm? Ugh… I can’t even call my fans for help. This is… infuriating.”
People around him roll their eyes or scoff. They’re used to his antics. Deep down, everyone knows Brady’s not a bad guy — just overly dramatic. Still, no one responds.
They all just… stand there. Looking around. Staring out windows. Fidgeting. Whispering. Waiting for something to change. But nothing does.
Not yet.