If you loved Red Family, try Haze

What Haze is

Corroded pipes drip in the gloom, a rat’s claws skittering through rust. A man wakes curled in a concrete slot, slash on his belly drying to crust, hands scrabbling toward faint light—until the walls start to breathe the same stale air back. Every inch forward doubles the agony. Vertigo and junkie minimalism meet Kafka in a crawlspace midnight.