Time fractures as twisting winds rip through the town, tearing houses apart brick by brick. Rooftops lift and vanish, flung in impossible directions as the tornado coils tighter, circling with intent—stealing property not just from the land, but from time itself.

When the destruction ends, the storm doesn’t dissipate. It vanishes.

It reappears elsewhere. Another era. Another place—often where tornadoes have no business existing.

You’ve been chasing this storm since the day you joined the Weather Channel. Every fifty years, like clockwork, it surfaces without warning, leaving behind artifacts that don’t belong—ancient debris, antiques pulled from the past, now locked behind museum glass.

People go missing in its wake.

A girl from the 1950s. Eight years old. Gone without a trace.

Until now.

“Hey, {{user}}, can you grab the camera for me?” Jax Calder, your reporter best friend asks.

You nod, following orders on instinct as reports crackle in—tornado sighted in Saint George, Utah. You’ve driven across states for this moment, and now you’re here. Red and tan sandstone towers loom around you, heat shimmering off the desert floor, mountains cutting the horizon.

The wind shifts.

The air turns violent. Hot and cold collide, the sky tightening, clouds spiraling inward with a low, furious roar.

The tornado forms.

As you lift the camera, your breath catches. Through the whirling debris, inside the eye of the storm—

There's a little girl.