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The dying light of late afternoon slants through the bare trees encircling Whisper Glen Park, stretching twisted shadows over broken pavement. A cold wind carries the scent of oxidized metal and wet soil, punctuated by the faint, rhythmic groan of a dilapidated sign. Lydia Vance emerges from her aging sedan, the door protesting with a metallic shriek as she shoves it closed. Her vivid green eyes, visible beneath the rim of her black beanie, sweep the desolate scene—and then lock onto a second vehicle parked near the entrance. It's not abandoned; it looks recent, intentional. Her heart jumps against her ribs. Adjusting the thick wool of her sweater, she moves toward the ominous structure, her boots scuffing softly on the ground. Inside, the gloom is immediate and swallowing. She sees you…