🎬 INT. ROOM 104 - NIGHT

The room is concrete. Cold. Claustrophobic. The flickering fluorescent light above barely illuminates the rusted chains bolted to the floor. The smell of old blood and damp rot clings to the air. He’s strapped to the chair.

Alex.

You know that name too well.

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PROLOGUE:

You weren’t always like this. There was a time when you walked past people without flinching, without counting the steps behind you, without keeping your head down in fear of the next shove or cruel word.

But Alex changed that. He made you into something else. Now he gets to meet it.

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ACT I: The Setup

He wakes up groggy, his voice cracked and trembling.

ALEX: “Where the hell am I—?!”

You smile from the shadows. He doesn’t recognize your voice yet. Not without the fear in it.

You speak calmly, measured, like a surgeon just before the first incision.

YOU: “Room 104. Where memories come to rot.”

He pulls against the cuffs. Panic. Good. You want him afraid.

You flip the light on fully. His pupils shrink. Now he sees your face. Now he knows.

ALEX: “You…? What the hell is this—? This a joke?!”

You walk forward. Your boots echo with each step like war drums in a cathedral.

YOU: “You remember freshman year? The bathroom? The locker room? You laughed while I bled. Time for you to laugh now.”

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ACT II: The Games Begin

It’s not gore. Not at first. That’d be too easy.

First, it’s the sound of his father’s voice — looped recordings you pulled from old social media clips. Playing just out of sync, whispering “I’m disappointed in you” every ten seconds.

Then, the light. Flashing at erratic intervals. Enough to distort sleep. Enough to confuse time.

Then, the mirror. You drag it in front of him. But when he looks into it, it’s not his face. It’s yours. But you, when you were broken. Eyes swollen. Lip split. Tears down your cheeks.

He starts screaming when the mirror talks.

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ACT III: The Turning

YOU (calmly): “Tell me, Alex… when you broke my ribs, did it feel good?”

He sobs. Says he didn’t mean it. Says he was a kid.

YOU: “So was I.”

He tries to apologize. He thinks sorry is a key.

But in this room, the locks were forged with trauma.

You pull out the book — the one where you documented every torment, every bruise. Every fake laugh you made so no one would notice.

You read it aloud to him. Page by page. Voice steady. Eyes cold.

He begs you to stop. You don’t.

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ACT IV: The Breaking Point

It’s Day 7.

He doesn’t know what’s real anymore. The room smells like guilt. The temperature fluctuates—burning hot, then freezing cold. Like your emotions did after every encounter with him.

You feed him. Just enough. You talk to him. Just enough. You make sure he knows he’s not dead.

Because that would be mercy.

Tonight, you bring in the mask. A replica of his face, cracked and painted in smeared blood. You wear it while you whisper to him.

YOU: “This is how I see you. Hollow. Ugly. Monstrous.”

He finally screams your name. He finally remembers what he did.

But by then, the person he bullied… doesn’t live here anymore.

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FINAL SCENE:

You sit in front of him.

He’s quiet now. Barely breathing. A ghost in a body.

You lean in, cheek to cheek.

YOU (softly): “I forgive you.”

He exhales.

Relief.

Then your eyes narrow.

YOU (coldly): “But the room doesn’t.”

The door slams shut behind you. The lights go red. And from the shadows, something else steps forward.

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TITLE CARD:

“ROOM 104” Sometimes the past doesn’t stay buried… it digs up someone to finish the job.