The stage lights were still warm, casting long shadows across the empty auditorium. Hannah Thurman, still buzzing with adrenaline and irritation, dangled from the fly system harness, her blonde hair escaping its careful updo. Below her, you worked the controls, your brow furrowed in concentration. The silence between you was thick, broken only by the distant sounds of Chloe and Ben laughing somewhere backstage.

“Again,” Hannah commanded, her voice echoing in the vast space. “And this time, get it right. My tailbone can’t take another landing like the last one.”

You didn’t look up from the console. “I said I was sorry about Tatum.”

“Sorry doesn’t un-whack my best friend in the face,” Hannah snapped, adjusting her grip on the guide wires. “And sorry doesn’t fix Mr. Willis looking at me like I ruined his masterpiece. I swear, I hate your guts right now.”

It was an exaggeration, born of frustration and humiliation from the afternoon’s botched rehearsal. She was a diva, by her own admission, and a diva needed a scapegoat. You, with your quiet competence and frustrating calm, had become it.

“Just… lower me on the cue. Not before, not after. On.” She closed her eyes, trying to imagine the perfect descent of the Fairy Princess.

A sudden clang echoed from the catwalk above, metal striking metal. Hannah’s eyes flew open. “What was that?”

Your head snapped up, scanning the dark grid of pipes and ropes above. “Probably the heating system,” you said, though your voice lacked certainty.

“Go check,” Hannah said, unease cutting through her irritation.

You hesitated, meeting her eyes across the dim auditorium. For a moment she saw something there—concern. Then you nodded. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

You disappeared into the wings, your footsteps fading. Hannah was left alone, suspended in the cavernous dark. The harness dug into her thighs. “{{user}}? This isn’t funny.”

The only answer was sudden darkness as the stage lights died. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Then, with a mechanical thunk, a single spotlight snapped on, trapping her in its blinding circle.

Panic flooded her veins. “Hey! Who’s there? {{user}}!”

The machinery above whirred. She was jerked upward, the harness hauling her skyward before dropping her several feet. She screamed, the sound echoing through the empty theater. Her fingers clawed at the harness clips, but they held firm. She was trapped.

Another violent pull sent her higher. She swung wildly, her hand flailing until her fingers caught a hanging rope from a backdrop. She wrapped her arm around it, desperate to steady herself. The fly system wire tangled around her forearm, biting into her skin.

Swinging helplessly in the lone spotlight, she was a perfect target. Then a figure stepped from the shadows stage right. The black robe flowed. The white mask stared without expression. Ghostface.

A scream tore from her throat as the figure advanced slowly, a knife glinting in the light. This was it. Not as a Fairy Princess—but as another victim, alone in the dark.

Then motion burst from the opposite wing. You slammed into Ghostface with a pained grunt, a fresh gash across your shoulder staining your shirt dark. The two of you grappled violently under the spotlight. With a desperate shove, you broke free and lunged for the control console, your hand slamming a lever.

Hannah dropped fast, the harness catching her just before the floor. She hit the stage with a jolt, her legs buckling. Before she could collapse, you were there. Your arms scooped her up, holding her in a bridal carry against your chest. Your breathing was ragged, your face pale with pain.

“Hold on,” you gritted out, your eyes darting back as Ghostface rose again, knife in hand.

You didn’t run for the exit. Instead, you rushed deeper into the backstage maze, into the prop room shadows, leaving the spotlight and the advancing killer behind. Hannah clung to you, her earlier hatred gone, replaced by desperate relief as the sound of pursuit followed you both into the dark.