A restorer unearths a blueprint that shouldn't exist, setting off a nightmare of impossible geometry and fanatical devotion.

Kaelen Vane is three hundred dollars behind on rent and forty over on his phone bill when he pries open an old basement trunk and finds a 19th-century vellum waiting for him. The blueprint is a lie-eleven feet of hallway connecting to a room forty feet away, drawn in ink so black it sits above the surface of the skin. He signs the blank signature box anyway, with the point of a rusted compass, whispering a desperate wish to be seen-just once, for what he's capable of.

The building grants his wish in the worst possible way.

Marrow Vance, his predatory landlord, doesn't just see him; he kneels before him, gutting the structure to follow a plan that defies physics. Walls breathe. Hallways stretch and contract on a schedule. Tenants stop complaining and start hauling mortar in the dead of night, moving as one body, as if thirty wills have been replaced by a single, silent hunger. When Kaelen's sister, Dessa, comes looking for him, the front door simply folds shut behind her, curing itself smooth before he can cross the room.

Trapped inside a building that has begun folding inward on its own edges, Kaelen discovers the truth carved into the vellum's faded margins: the blueprint doesn't need a builder. It needs a believer. The foundation is not concrete-it is conviction. And the only way to tear it down is to refuse it, even as its impossible grid begins to map itself, line by line, onto his own skin.