Episode 6 — "Trapdoor"
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Cold Open
A dingy motel room on the edge of Ravenwood. Neon hums through the blinds, buzzing pink across peeling wallpaper.
Markus Daly (28) sits on the edge of the bed, high as fuck, lighter flicking in his hand. He was a dropout, a dealer, a nobody—but he got a text tonight promising money. Lots of it.
"BRING YOUR ASS TO ROOM 12. CASH IS YOURS. DO NOT BE LATE."
He chuckles, scratching his neck. "Shit, free money? Don't mind if I fucking do."
He pushes open the door to Room 12.
Inside: dark. The only light is a flickering TV playing static. A roll of bills sits on the dresser, crisp hundreds bound in rubber bands.
"Fuck yeah," Markus mutters, stepping inside. He reaches.
The TV's static shifts. For a second, the picture clears. His own face stares back.
Behind him in the reflection—white porcelain. Crack down the cheek.
"Who the fuck—"
The lights cut out.
The door slams shut.
Neighbors hear Markus scream once, long, ragged. Something wet follows.
When the cops arrive hours later, all they find is blood painted in thick, dripping letters across the bed sheets:
"HE'S SETTING TRAPS TOO."
Black.
Title Card: THE STALKER.
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Act I — Jason's Plan
Jason Hale had stopped pacing his dorm hours ago. Now he just sat in the dark, duffel bag at his feet, staring at the Polaroid of himself and Elena. His hands shook, but his mind was sharp, sharp in a way that scared even him.
Elena perched on the desk, arms crossed tight. "So what's the master plan, Sherlock? Because right now, you're vibrating like you want to eat glass."
Jason lit a cigarette, dragged deep, exhaled smoke through his teeth. "We bait the bastard."
"Jesus Christ."
"No, listen," Jason said, leaning forward, voice low, dangerous. "Every time they come for me, they leave breadcrumbs. Texts, photos, fucking Polaroids. They want me rattled, cornered. But what if I turn it? What if I make them think they've got the perfect setup, and then I flip it on their face?"
Elena stared at him like she didn't recognize him anymore. "You want to set a trap for a psychopath who's made killing people into fucking performance art? Do you hear yourself?"
Jason smirked without humor. "Yeah. I hear myself just fine."
His phone buzzed. Unknown number.
"GOOD. LET'S MAKE IT A COMPETITION."
Jason's smirk died.
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Act II — Setting the Bait
Jason's idea was ugly but simple: he and Elena would spread rumors that Jason was sneaking into the abandoned Ravenwood Theater to meet someone who had "evidence."
"Why the theater?" Elena asked as they passed its rotting facade, ivy choking the brick.
"Because it's a perfect kill box," Jason muttered. "Balconies, crawl spaces, stage rigging. If the killer shows, I'll know where to look."
Elena frowned. "Or it's a perfect kill box for you."
Jason didn't answer.
That night, they set the bait. Jason posted on an anonymous student board: "Hale meeting source at Ravenwood Theater, midnight. This ends."
Then they waited.
Elena sat with her camera. Jason sat with his duffel—inside, a crowbar, duct tape, and a switchblade he'd bought off a dropout.
"This is insane," Elena muttered.
Jason's jaw was steel. "It's war."
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Act III — The Theater
Midnight. The Ravenwood Theater loomed like a tomb. The front doors creaked open, darkness swallowing them whole. Dust choked the air, seats sagged in rows, the stage curtain hung like rotten flesh.
Jason moved slow, crowbar in hand, eyes flicking everywhere. Elena followed, camera ready, nerves frayed.
"Jason," she whispered. "This is fucked."
"Shh."
His phone buzzed.
"WELCOME TO THE SHOW."
The stage lights blazed on all at once. The sudden glare blinded them. Elena gasped.
On stage: a body, tied to a chair. Blood dripping from the mouth. A spotlight framed it like theater.
"Fuck," Jason hissed, sprinting forward. Elena followed, camera snapping.
It was Markus Daly—dealer, dropout. His throat had been opened, blood soaking his shirt. His eyes glassy, head slumped.
Pinned to his chest: a note.
"TOO SLOW. YOUR TURN."
Jason ripped the note free, fury boiling through him. "Motherfucker knew we'd come."
Something creaked above.
Jason looked up—too late.
A sandbag dropped from the rigging, smashing into the stage where Jason had stood a second ago. Wood splintered. Elena screamed, camera flying from her hand.
The killer had rigged the goddamn theater against them.
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Act IV — The Cat-and-Mouse
Jason shoved Elena behind a column. His phone buzzed again.
"ROUND ONE TO ME."
He typed back, fingers shaking. Show your face, you coward.
The reply came instantly.
"I ALREADY DID."
Jason's stomach dropped. He turned—
And saw the mask. Sitting in the front row, hands folded neatly in its lap, head tilted, watching.
Jason lunged down the aisle, crowbar raised. "I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!"
The figure didn't move. Jason swung—
The mask clattered to the floor, empty. A mannequin's torso fell sideways, strings trailing back into the dark.
Above him, something moved in the catwalks. Fast.
Jason roared, swinging the crowbar upward, but the figure vanished into the shadows, leaving only laughter echoing through the rafters.
"Jason!" Elena screamed.
He turned—
The stage curtain ignited in sudden flame. Fire licked upward, heat slamming against their faces. The smell of accelerant filled the air.
"Out! Now!" Jason grabbed Elena's arm, yanked her toward the side exit.
They burst into the night as the theater behind them went up, flames painting the sky red.
Jason dropped to his knees on the pavement, chest heaving, rage spilling out of him in broken words. "He's fucking with us. He knew. He knew every goddamn move—"
His phone buzzed.
"YOU HUNT. I HUNT BETTER."
Jason hurled the phone into the street. It shattered. He didn't care.
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Ending Cliffhanger
As fire trucks screamed toward the theater, Jason stood, soot-streaked, hands shaking. Elena grabbed his arm. "Jason—we can't win this. He's ahead of us every step."
Jason's eyes burned, teeth clenched so hard his jaw popped. "Then I stop playing his fucking game."
Elena frowned. "What does that mean?"
Jason turned to the burning theater, firelight carving his face into something harder, darker.
"It means I stop waiting for him to strike. I don't defend. I don't react." He looked at her, voice flat, terrifying in its certainty. "I become the monster he's trying to make me. And I hunt him until one of us is fucking dead."
Behind them, in the crowd gathering at the fire line, the camera catches something they don't see—
A figure in the back, hood up, mask hanging casually around their neck like jewelry. Watching. Smiling.