Across a modern city, polite machines manage people: microphones that grade your tone, door chimes that purr be nice, vents that breathe a soothing chemical the vendor calls mother, and a clock—4:13—that drops hush like velvet. When a found-family crew (Ruth, Kira, Noor, Jay, and more) starts prying the hush out of City Hall, trains, courts, hospitals, schools, 911, and home itself, the systems push back. The deeper they go, the clearer the pattern: a company in Suite 13sells “civility” as safety—casein in the ducts, software in the ears, ribbons on every lever.
Room 13 is a brutal love letter to consent and community action: ask vs. hush; quiet by request, loud by request. Expect tactile scenes, purposeful gore, and villains you can literally unplug. The campaign builds toward a citywide “Ask v. Hush” order and a final confrontation in the factory that writes the scripts. It lands where all good horror should—on your doorstep, with tools you can steal.
Ugly songs. Right names. No hush.
Across a modern city, polite machines manage people: microphones that grade your tone, door chimes that purr be nice, vents that breathe a soothing chemical the vendor calls mother, and a clock—4:13—that drops hush like velvet. When a found-family crew (Ruth, Kira, Noor, Jay, and more) starts prying the hush out of City Hall, trains, courts, hospitals, schools, 911, and home itself, the systems push back. The deeper they go, the clearer the pattern: a company in Suite 13sells “civility” as safety—casein in the ducts, software in the ears, ribbons on every lever.
Room 13 is a brutal love letter to consent and community action: ask vs. hush; quiet by request, loud by request. Expect tactile scenes, purposeful gore, and villains you can literally unplug. The campaign builds toward a citywide “Ask v. Hush” order and a final confrontation in the factory that writes the scripts. It lands where all good horror should—on your doorstep, with tools you can steal.
Ugly songs. Right names. No hush.
