Neotoma's sky weeps plasmic pus. Rael wades gut-deep in rot to the Church of the Unspoken Gate—a crooked tooth in hell's jaw. Their coat hangs empty. Sigil carved fresh on warm stone. Note burns like a lie: "I was good. Bed's cold." Fire spits shadows. Knock-knock. Patient. Polite. The thing in lover's skin comes callin'. Pistol's kissin' distance. First blood in the baptism. 8:21 runtime. No fade to black.