Episode 12 — "The Stage"
⸻
Cold Open
The Ravenwood gymnasium smelled like old sweat and waxed wood, the ghost of high school dances no one admitted attending.
Spotlights snapped on one by one, illuminating the basketball court.
A chair sat at center court. On it: a folded Ravenwood hoodie, neatly placed, like a memorial.
The scoreboard flickered alive.
00:59.
The buzzer blared, and the countdown began.
From the rafters came a laugh, distorted but familiar, echoing across the empty bleachers.
"Your move, Jason."
Black.
Title Card: THE STALKER.
⸻
Act I — Jason Picks the Stage
Jason sat in the back of the campus chapel, cigarette smoke curling around the stained glass. Elena sat beside him, notebook on her lap, pen tapping nervously. Ryan leaned forward in the pew ahead, chewing his nails. Detective Vance paced near the altar, coat still dripping from the storm outside.
Jason spoke without looking at them. "He told me I could pick the stage. Fine. I'll pick."
Vance frowned. "And where, pray tell, are you dragging me this time?"
Jason flicked ash into the offering plate. "The fall charity game. Auditorium full of kids. Spotlights. Cheerleaders. Parents. Cops. Press. If he wants theater, I'll give him a fucking Broadway premiere."
Elena snapped her head toward him. "Jason, that's insane. You're using innocent people as bait."
Jason's eyes were dead calm. "He already uses them. Every corpse has been someone near me. At least this time I'm writing the script."
Ryan muttered, "This is going to end with blood on the floorboards."
Jason looked at him, voice flat. "That's the point."
⸻
Act II — The Charity Game
Friday night. The Ravenwood gym was packed. The fundraiser game between students and staff was always a goofy tradition—professors missing layups, kids dunking badly on seven-foot hoops, cheer squads hamming it up.
Not tonight.
Tonight the atmosphere buzzed with something heavier. The lights felt too bright. The music too loud. Security guards lined the walls. And in the bleachers, Jason sat like a wolf at a church picnic, crowbar hidden under his coat, eyes scanning every maintenance worker, every janitor, every scar, every limp.
Elena sat beside him, voice low. "If he shows, it'll be to prove you don't control the stage. He'll take it from you."
Jason didn't answer. His eyes tracked a custodian pushing a mop bucket across the far hall. Right shoulder hitch. Scar on the jaw.
Jason started to stand.
Elena grabbed his arm. "Don't. Not unless you're sure."
Jason sat back down, muscles coiled like wire.
⸻
Act III — The Opening Move
Halftime. The lights dimmed. The PA crackled.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Ravenwood's own choir…"
But no one walked out.
Instead, the scoreboard flickered. The numbers scrambled, then spelled:
JASON HALE
Gasps rippled across the gym.
Jason stood slowly, eyes burning holes into the board.
The PA clicked again. A voice, distorted, playful.
"Welcome to Jason's stage. Tonight's act: will he save them… or watch them burn?"
The east exit doors slammed shut. The chains rattled into place.
People screamed.
Floodlights blasted the bleachers. The crowd was suddenly on display, faces pale, eyes darting.
From above, the rafters groaned. Something heavy swung down on ropes: a line of mannequins in Ravenwood hoodies, dangling like corpses. Each wore a cheap porcelain mask with the crack drawn in marker.
The kids in the front rows screamed bloody murder.
⸻
Act IV — The Massacre Begins
Jason's phone buzzed. He looked.
UNKNOWN: Pick one section. A, B, or C. The others suffer.
He looked up. The bleachers were split into three. A, B, C. Families, students, staff. Panic climbing.
Elena's voice cracked. "He's making you choose again."
Jason clenched his teeth. "Not this time."
He bolted onto the court, ripping the crowbar free, bellowing: "COME ON, YOU FUCK! FACE ME!"
The scoreboard timer restarted. 05:00.
Sparks rained from the ceiling. Panels of the scoreboard fell, crashing onto the bleachers of Section A. Screams. Blood. People crushed under metal.
Chaos exploded.
Security scrambled. Vance barked orders, gun drawn.
Jason ran toward the wreckage, but a figure in a raincoat darted along the rafters, fast, agile, mask glinting in the strobes.
Jason pointed, roaring: "HE'S HERE!"
The crowd surged for the exits. The chains on the doors snapped tight. Padlocks gleamed.
From the PA: laughter. "Jason Hale saves no one."
⸻
Act V — Face to Face, Again
Jason didn't hesitate. He scaled the bleachers, crowbar biting into wood, climbing toward the rafters.
The figure was waiting, perched like a gargoyle above the chaos. Mask tilted, crack catching the light.
Jason lunged, swinging. The crowbar slammed into the rafters, sparks flying. The figure ducked, countered with a knife slash that nicked Jason's arm. Blood sprayed warm across his sleeve.
Jason bared his teeth. "Not this time."
They grappled, close, brutal. Jason head-butted the mask, cracking it further. The killer laughed through blood.
"Good boy," the distorted voice hissed.
Jason swung again, this time connecting—mask fragments flying. He caught a glimpse beneath: a jawline scar, sweat, eyes that weren't dead but alive with joy.
Then the killer shoved him back. Jason lost footing, nearly fell into the bleachers below. Elena screamed his name.
The killer leapt to the opposite beam, agile as a cat, vanishing into the shadows of the rafters.
Jason roared, furious, broken. "SHOW YOUR FUCKING FACE!"
The PA clicked again, voice mock-sweet.
"Midterms over. Finals next."
The scoreboard timer hit zero. Alarms shrieked. The sprinklers burst. Water rained over the chaos, washing blood across the court.
⸻
Ending Cliffhanger
Hours later, the gym was a warzone of flashing lights, paramedics, cops, sobbing students. Section A was taped off—six dead, dozens injured.
Jason sat on the wet court, soaked, crowbar across his knees, face pale and hollow. Elena crouched beside him, trembling but alive. Ryan sat against the wall, silent, staring at his hands.
Vance stood over them, drenched, fury and grief in her eyes. "This is what happens when you pick the stage."
Jason looked up at her, voice hoarse, dead calm. "Then next time, I pick the graveyard."
His phone buzzed one last time.
UNKNOWN: Closer. You almost touched me. I'm proud.
Jason dropped the phone on the wet floor. Stomped it until the screen bled light.
He whispered to himself, voice shaking but sharp as razors. "I'm not the prey anymore. I'm the storm."
The camera lingered on the rafters—on a shard of porcelain mask still clinging to the beam, dripping with Jason's blood.