Citywide insomnia blooms like a plague after a sleep‑therapy app slips a hidden lullaby into millions of ears. A burnt‑out neuroscientist, a night‑shift EMT, and a teenage lucid‑dreamer triangulate the source as micro‑naps start stealing people mid‑sentence. The trailer snaps from EEG skylines to tunnel‑vision panic: dashboard cam drifting at 3:03 a.m., an elevator that opens to last night, a classroom where every head drops in perfect rhythm.

Wallpaper peels into waveforms; eyelids flicker with frames of something counting—one, two—just off the beat. Sound design weaponizes hush: fan hum, pink noise bending wrong, a metronome that slides between rooms. Set‑pieces bite: a mass‑sleep event at a stadium, a hospital blackout mapped by pulse‑ox glow, a sleep‑study ring where they try to trap the thing by dreaming together. Rules blur—don’t blink becomes don’t breathe—and the final sting lands cold: a text appears—Close your eyes—while the heartbeat line flattens into the title card.