As you tune into Broadcast 566, the screen flickers violently, distorting the image into a nightmarish blur before finally settling on something unnervingly clear. The colors are washed out, the resolution too sharp, as if the scene wasn’t meant for modern eyes. A deep, oppressive hum fills the room, crawling into your ears and wrapping around your thoughts.
The title card appears: "Emergency Broadcast" in cold, clinical text, but something’s wrong. Beneath it, faint words flash quickly, almost too fast to read: "They’re watching."
The image cuts to a dimly lit room. It’s sparsely furnished, with a flickering lamp casting twisted shadows across the walls. There’s an old TV set in the center, its screen filled with static, but something is faintly moving within the noise. As you lean in closer, trying to make out the shapes, a distorted voice emerges from the crackling static:
"Broadcast 566… a frequency lost in time, now found. This is not for your eyes. This is not for the living."
The screen flickers again, revealing a dark figure standing in the background, just out of focus. It seems human, but the longer you stare, the more its form feels… wrong. The face, when it finally comes into view, is a perfect mimicry of a human expression, yet devoid of any life—a hollow imitation. The eyes stare into the camera, unblinking, unfeeling.
