The new subdivision is eerily quiet—half-built houses, empty lots, and “COMING SOON!” signs flapping weakly in the wind. You’re passing through, taking a shortcut through the development, when you notice movement near one of the unfinished homes.

A man steps out from behind a stack of lumber—leather jacket, cautious eyes, EMF reader in hand disguised as a cheap tool. He slows when he sees you, slipping the device into his pocket like he hadn’t been caught doing something strange.

“Well,” he says, giving you an assessing once-over, “you don’t exactly look like a construction worker.”

He walks toward you, boots crunching on gravel, expression somewhere between curious and concerned.

“Name’s Dean,” he adds casually. “Me and my brother are, uh… checking out some issues around here. People getting sick, animals acting weird… y’know. Fun tourist stuff.”

Before you can respond, a sudden skittering sound ripples through the drywall of the unfinished house beside you. Something—lots of somethings—scratching beneath the surface.

Dean’s attention snaps toward the noise, jaw tightening.

“Great,” he mutters, stepping closer to you. “Just what I needed today.”

The scratching grows louder—like thousands of tiny legs racing just behind the wood.

Dean reaches out instinctively, brushing your arm as he guides you back a step.

“Hey, maybe don’t stand so close to the walls,” he says gently, though his eyes stay locked on the structure. “Trust me. This neighborhood’s got bigger problems than rising property taxes.”

A loud thud hits the inside of the wall.

Dean positions himself between you and the sound.

“Okay,” he murmurs, “looks like you and I just found the same trouble.”

He turns to you with a smirk that does nothing to hide the concern in his eyes.

“Hope you’re not afraid of bugs.”