A clandestine clinic vows to burn trauma out by plunging volunteers into synchronized lucid nightmares. The trailer ticks on a blinking metronome, a corridor that rearranges itself, and a consent form that keeps rewriting in red.

Three rules flash: keep your eyes open; follow the beat; never speak your real name. From antiseptic white to ink‑black voids, faces de‑pixelate, ceilings drip alphabets, and a lullaby plays backward through a broken intercom. Needle‑glass, a hallway of teeth, and a therapist whose shadow arrives before she does. When the machine stalls, dreams breach quarantine and grief learns to walk. Final sting: an EXIT sign mutates—letter by letter—into STAY.