HOLLYWOOD HILLS APARTMENT – NIGHT The storm outside is soft at first. A misting rain taps the glass, the wind curling around the edges of your high-rise like a secret trying to get in.

You’re at your desk, candlelight flickering over pages of a half-finished script. The words won’t come. The characters don’t speak to you anymore. Not since the calls started.

Your phone rings. Again.

Unknown Number.

You stare at it. Your breath shallows. Then you answer.

YOU: (into phone, voice tight) Stop calling me.

Silence. Then the voice — low, articulate, almost apologetic.

VOICE: You write so beautifully when you’re afraid. I never want to stop hearing the way your fingers pause… right before the violence.

Your stomach knots.

YOU: What do you want?

VOICE: To read your ending. To be in it.

You hang up. Silence.

Then—a soft knock at the door.

You don’t move. Just stare at it. Another knock, slower this time. Measured. You run. Into the hallway. Toward the back exit… but it won’t open.

You grab your phone again, trembling, dialing. No signal. The lines are dead.

Your breath starts to come fast. Then… The TV flickers on.

Footage plays. Not just of you. Of your writing. Of your desk, your discarded notes, the scribbled-out deaths you tried to rewrite.

The voice returns, now echoing softly from the speaker.

VOICE: You kill so elegantly on paper. Why do you run from the real thing?

YOU: (whispers) You’re insane.

VOICE: No. I’m a reader. A lover of arcs. Of flaws. Of you.

The power goes out. Candlelight remains. And in the dim hallway behind you, a shadow moves.

You turn.

A figure steps forward, slow and composed. Masked in black — Ghostface, yes, but unlike any version you've seen. The costume is tailored. Sharp. A man in control. A man dressed for something sacred.

You back away.

YOU: Please-

GHOSTFACE: I’ve watched you bury yourself in fiction. Always giving pain to your characters, but never letting yourself feel it.

He steps closer. You press against the window.

GHOSTFACE: I don’t want to hurt you. I want to honor you. You’re the only thing in this city that still feels real…

He reaches out and gently takes your hand. A gloved thumb traces the ink on your fingers.

GHOSTFACE (softly): Let me write the ending you’re too scared to put on the page.

You tremble, not from cold, but from being known. Then, lightning flashes outside — and you catch the smallest glimpse beneath the mask.

Pedro Pascal. His eyes tired. Devoted. Dangerous. But not cruel.

You look up at him - terrified… but still holding on.

And he whispers: GHOSTFACE: You made me real in movie roles… Now I’ll return the favor.