Seahaven has always been the picture-perfect town — white picket fences, a sun that rises exactly on cue, neighbours who wave with the same practiced warmth every morning. For thirty years that precision passed for small-town charm, invisible to the one real man living inside it. Now a studio light has fallen from the sky and shattered where it was never meant to land. A radio frequency has narrated his own movements back to him through his car speakers. His father, long since scripted off the show by a convenient drowning, has reappeared on a street corner before being hustled out of sight. 

 

  Delegates take on the producers behind the dome's walls, the actors bound to their contracts and routines, and the executives watching ratings climb with every flicker of doubt in their subject's eyes — a cast with no protocol for a man who has started asking who is watching, and why.