They were supposed to keep it light—Georgia, hotel rooms, silly outfits, the kind of “let’s just have fun” energy people use to pretend fear doesn’t exist.

But the second they started moving, the whole atmosphere changed.

It began with that restless, chaotic rhythm you could almost hear in the editing cuts—constant noise, constant improvising. Someone yelling “shake it” like the words themselves could shake loose whatever was waiting for them. A bit of play-acting, a bit of nonsense. Dinosaur jokes. Burping like it was a talent show. Little interruptions that should’ve been harmless…except nothing about it felt truly harmless.

Because beneath the jokes, you could feel it: this was a day where boundaries were getting tested, patience was wearing thin, and everyone was one comment away from snapping.

Tammy was there—always Tammy—moving like she didn’t care what anyone thought while also somehow pulling the room into her orbit. She looked like she belonged in the moment, like she could bulldoze through discomfort with pure confidence. And yet even with her energy, something about the way everyone circled her made it clear that her presence wasn’t just entertaining—it was tense. Like she was both the comfort and the threat.

“Ly my sister is my best friends,” someone blurts, and suddenly the “best friends” part is the whole plot. There’s laughter, but it doesn’t land like laughter. It lands like a defense mechanism. Like if they keep talking fast enough, they won’t have to talk about what’s coming.

Then the teasing starts—sharp, silly, and borderline personal. Tammy’s the target and also the shield. One second someone is praising her as always-right, the next second they’re calling it a “negative,” like confidence itself can be a crime.

And then—because the family never does anything the normal way—they pivot to the kind of chaos that makes you wonder if this is entertainment or just a pressure-release valve.

They’re swapping gadgets like party favors. A “Thigh Master” that somehow becomes a debate. A pogo stick that’s suddenly “broken” in the most dramatic way possible. An argument about whether something “ain’t going between my thighs” or whether it “is going,” with the same energy people use when they can’t say what they actually mean. The jokes are loud. The subtext is louder.

“Man, that arm’s going to be really—” someone starts, then laughter swallows the rest of the sentence.

But the undercurrent stays.

Because everybody knows what today is really about.

Not the hotel. Not the dinosaur. Not the shark outfit. Not the burping talent. Today is about a body that’s changing. About a timeline that doesn’t care how ready you feel. About decisions being made in rooms where you’re supposed to be relaxed—rooms that always end up feeling too small.

And then the plan gets announced.

Virtual reality.

At first, it sounds like an escape hatch. “Virtual reality means you’re in your own little world.” That’s the pitch—like you could put on a headset and leave the stress behind. Like you could disappear for a while and still be safe.

They hook it up to the TV. The others watch, seeing whatever the person in the headset sees—like spectators at a stage show they can’t quite control. The “guinea pig” comment hits. The audience laughs. The person in VR begins to react, and the laughter doesn’t stop, because laughter is what they do when the moment gets too real.

Then it starts creeping.

Not the screen—something in the room. The way the person says it: “It’s creeping… it’s creeping… it’s creeping.” That repeated phrasing turns a simple setup into a warning. Like whatever’s happening in the headset isn’t just entertainment. Like it’s pulling them in.

And while everyone jokes about who you can become in VR—“super model,” “America’s Next Top”—the tone shifts in tiny ways. The family is acting. But they’re also preparing. The energy is split between fun and fear, and it doesn’t take long before you realize the “single player” part isn’t actually comforting.

Because even if VR is a solo world, the family isn’t.

They’re together, and they’re all watching. All of them waiting for what happens next.

Eventually, they pull back from the headset world and return to the real one—where the body matters, where choices matter, where pain doesn’t negotiate.

That’s when the readings begin.

It’s presented like a novelty. Like a strange little detour before reality kicks down the door. “So you guys want to get readings today?” The voice is cheery, but the faces around the table don’t