It starts with a flicker. The lights in your neighborhood go dark, one by one, as if something vast has passed overhead. You're Roy Neary, a lineman in Muncie, Indiana, just finishing a shift when the sky splits open.

A glowing object—silent, immense—hovers above the treetops. It pulses with colors you’ve never seen, bathing your truck in radiant light. The heat sears your cheek as it lifts, vanishing into the clouds with three others trailing behind.

That night, you can’t sleep. A shape burns behind your eyes: jagged, towering, impossible to place. You sketch it on napkins. You build it from clay. Your wife pleads with you. Your kids stare in confusion.

Then you see it on the news—Devils Tower. And you know, without doubt, you have to go there.

But the government says the area’s been evacuated. A 'toxic spill,' they claim. You don’t believe it.

You pack a bag. The road ahead is forbidden. The truth is waiting.

Do you leave tonight—or wait until morning?