Episode 2 — "Closer Than They Appear"
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Cold Open
The frat house was alive with music that felt more like teeth than sound. The bass shook the drywall, the laughter rose like birds startled from a field, and somewhere beneath it all was a scream nobody heard.
Nate Parker (21) stumbled up the stairs, beer bottle sloshing, wearing his usual backwards cap. He wasn't supposed to be here tonight—he had a girlfriend back home who expected a phone call—but Nate was a man who believed in accidents happening to other people.
The bathroom at the top of the stairs was occupied. He pounded on it, grinning. "Hurry up, my bladder's about to file a lawsuit!"
Silence.
He swayed, went to try the door. It creaked open just enough for him to see the mirror inside.
And in the mirror: himself. And behind himself, a white porcelain mask with a fracture like lightning across its cheek.
Nate turned—no one.
The mask in the mirror leaned forward, breathing fog across the glass. Words appeared in condensation, written backward:
"BOTTOMS UP."
Nate staggered backward. His heel caught the lip of the stair.
He fell.
The bottle broke on the steps beside his head, spraying shards. He landed neck-first with a crunch. The crowd below roared, but this roar was still laughter—because to them, it was just Nate drunk, clowning as usual.
It took a full ten seconds before anyone realized the angle of his head wasn't a joke.
THE STALKER
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Act I – Jason's Eyes
Jason Hale hated parties. They were too loud, too close, too unpredictable. But Ryan insisted—Ryan always insisted.
"Dude, this is how we start a semester right!" Ryan declared, tossing a beer at Jason like it was a peace offering. "One beer. Don't act like an old man."
Jason caught it. Didn't open it. He leaned against the kitchen counter, scanning. His brain couldn't stop running its catalogues: who entered, who exited, what they carried, how their pupils shifted.
Elena Cruz spotted him from across the room. She pushed past a wall of sweaty students, a grin plastered like armor. "Sherlock," she said, leaning in close. "If you're going to lurk, at least lurk with flair."
Jason raised an eyebrow. "I'm observing."
"Observing what? That drunk guy's gonna puke? Congratulations, Nostradamus."
Jason's lips twitched, not quite a smile. "The guy by the window is texting the same phrase over and over. Copy-pasting. To three different people. Cheater."
Elena blinked. "…You're infuriating. Also, you might be my new favorite source."
Jason looked at her. Really looked. He wanted to tell her to leave, to go home, to stay far from him. But the words jammed. Because part of him—traitor part—liked her being near.
The music dipped suddenly. Screams replaced it.
They came from the stairwell.
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Act II – Accident or Murder?
Jason pushed through the crowd before his brain had time to vote. At the base of the stairs lay Nate Parker, his head twisted, glass embedded in his temple, blood seeping across the steps like paint.
"Oh my god!" a girl shrieked. "Someone call 911!"
Ryan cursed, pale. "He—he was just upstairs. He was fine—"
Jason crouched. He didn't touch, but his eyes touched everything. The angle of the fall. The way the bottle shattered outward, not down. The scuff on the railing, almost like a grip mark.
An accident would have left bruises along the arms, defensive scrapes. Nate's skin was strangely clean—except for one faint line at the back of his neck. A hand had shoved.
Jason's chest tightened. Not random.
Detective Marla Vance arrived within the hour, storming through the chaos with her badge like a blade. She saw Jason before he saw her.
"You again," she said flatly.
Jason didn't look away from Nate's body. "He didn't just fall."
"Don't start."
"The glass. The mark on his neck. Somebody pushed him."
Vance wrote something in her notebook. "Mr. Hale, you'd make my life easier if you stayed at chess club instead of crime scenes."
Jason met her gaze. "I don't play chess."
"Exactly," she muttered, walking off.
Elena slipped in beside Jason once the cops began shooing people back. Her voice was low. "What did you see?"
Jason hesitated. Then: "The mask. Upstairs window. Watching."
Elena froze. "…You're serious."
Jason nodded.
Her hand brushed his sleeve unconsciously, like grounding herself. "Then you and I need to start keeping notes. Because whoever this is? They're not stopping."
Jason wanted to say don't get close. Instead, he said nothing.
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Act III – The Warning
That night, Jason lay awake again, eyes on the closet door. The painted words still glared back at him: WELCOME TO RAVENWOOD.
His phone vibrated. He opened it.
"SHE LIKES YOU."
Jason's stomach dropped.
Another message immediately after:
"SHOULD I KILL HER QUICK OR SLOW?"
He shot upright, scanning the room. Ryan snored through oblivion. The glass on the sill rattled once, faintly. Jason grabbed it before it tipped, heart hammering.
His phone buzzed a third time. A photo.
Elena. Taken that very night, at the party. She was standing with a drink, mid-laugh, face turned slightly toward Jason. The angle of the photo: from above, through the same stairwell window Jason had seen the mask in.
Jason's chest burned. He typed back before reason caught up. Don't touch her.
The dots appeared. Stopped. Appeared again.
"TOO LATE."
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Ending Cliffhanger
The next morning, campus awoke to whispers again. Police tape went up in front of the frat house. Jason fought through the crowd, scanning desperately.
Elena appeared, alive, notebook clutched, eyes wide. Relief nearly buckled his knees.
But her expression wasn't relief—it was horror. She thrust her phone at him.
A text. Unknown number. Sent at 3:00 a.m.
"DON'T TRUST HIM. JASON KILLS EVERYONE CLOSE TO HIM."
Jason stared at it, throat dry. His own name, written like a verdict.
And behind Elena, over her shoulder, through the reflection in the cafeteria window—
The mask watched.