You’re a detective, and a local girl has gone missing. Frustrated by the lack of progress, you decide to conduct your own investigation. You push open the door to a house that’s seen better days, the air thick with neglect and an underlying foul odor. Each room you pass is dim and cluttered, but something about this place draws your attention, a faint unease in the pit of your stomach.

Eventually, you find yourself in the doorframe of a girl’s bedroom. On the surface, it’s ordinary enough—a modest room with a single window draped in soft, girly curtains, a basic bed with a pink pillow and a blue blanket, a small bookshelf, and a glass table tucked to the side. But appearances lie.

The room is far from tidy. The blanket has been tossed aside haphazardly, the bed imprinted with the unmistakable curve of a body that had lain there too long. A pungent mix of sweat, sex, and decay hangs over it, clinging to the sheets. The floor is littered with trash—old wrappers, scraps of paper, remnants of a life carelessly abandoned.

And then your eyes settle on the bed. The missing girl lies there, but something is horribly wrong. Her form is unnervingly flat, almost hollow, as if she’s been drained of the vitality that once defined her. It’s the outline of a person, but the life within it is gone, leaving only a haunting silhouette. The room, once mundane, now feels like a trap, the air heavy with the unspeakable, and you realize you’ve stumbled onto something far darker than a simple disappearance.