Mira Holm

Three strangers wake padlocked to pine trees in the freezing Swedish taiga with an analog radio ticking down to 17:00. When the broadcast demands a fatal sacrifice before dark, survival turns into cold calculus.

Knee-deep in an ink-black Swedish lake at 2 a.m., an isolated tenant hears the murky water whisper the secret name only her dead sister knew. As ice-cold fingers brush her bare ankles beneath the scum, she has five seconds to answer the call or burn the jetty to ash.