"This theater's tiny," Emily muttered as she sank into her seat.
Still, it had a certain charm. Small, a bit run-down maybe, but intimate—perfect for a horror flick.
She glanced around, noting the absence of the usual red carpet fanfare. No flashbulbs, no press.
Just the lead actress in jeans and a hoodie, blending into the crowd. Low-key, almost deliberately so.
"Maybe they know they're not A-list," she thought.
"Or maybe they just didn't care."
The lights dimmed. The chatter faded.
The film opened with a jolt—stylized motion shots that flowed like a dream, or a nightmare. Christian's name appeared first, then Addison Young's.
Director and cinematographer. The sequence hit like a wave, catching the crowd off guard and sweeping them straight into the film's grip.
A climber plummeted. His head hit the rocks with a sickening crunch, bursting like a ripe melon.
A few gasps escaped into the dark—startled, unfiltered.
Emily rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah," she whispered, unimpressed by the screams from a guy nearby.
Howard, a row over, leaned toward his friend Raj, who was visibly shaken.
"It's alright," Howard said, chuckling softly.
"You're used to rom-coms. This one doesn't pull punches."
He relaxed into his seat, glad the opening had shut everyone up.
"If they stay quiet, this might actually be a great watch."
"Crazy, huh?" he added.
"Sitting in a room full of strangers, watching people get torn apart."
Across the aisle, Charlize kept her eyes on Christian, who sat next to her like a statue—head tilted back, eyes closed, completely still.
"It's your damn movie," she thought, annoyed.
"If you didn't want to be here, why drag me along?"
They'd slipped in quietly. No introductions, no spotlight. Just two more faces in the dark. No one seemed to notice them.
Which was strange—Charlize was the lead, Christian the director.
You'd think someone would care. But that seemed to be the plan.
Charlize had expected him to want front-row seats, center aisle.
A director soaking in audience reactions.
But no—Christian had picked a shadowy spot in the back, like he was hiding from something, or watching for it.
"And he had me bring that bottle," she remembered.
"Did he think something would happen tonight?"
Christian didn't move, didn't blink. But every so often, his left hand twitched—fingers pinching together like he was counting something only he could see.
Charlize gave up. "Whatever. He'll tell me when he wants to. Or not."
She leaned back, trying to focus on the screen. But guilt twisted in her gut.
"Penny," she realized.
"I gave her those premiere tickets... but I haven't seen her here."
Her stomach sank. Petunia—Penny—had been struggling, and here Charlize was, strutting around in a lead role like nothing had changed.
She hadn't meant to rub it in. But maybe she had.
"God. What have I done?"
Her pride evaporated. Fame, excitement, all of it suddenly felt hollow. She made a silent promise to call Penny tomorrow—to say sorry, and mean it.
Elsewhere in the theater, someone else was thinking about Penny too.
"She would've liked this," a voice whispered to themselves.
"It's good. Charlize did alright."
Leonard wasn't always the best at reading the room—especially when it came to women.
"I don't get it," he said, squinting at the screen.
"Why would anyone start fooling around on the hood of a car in a place like that? It's clearly dangerous. Shouldn't they be saving their strength or watching their backs?"
Sheldon, sitting beside him, barely blinked.
"That's because you're expecting logic," he said flatly.
"And hormones don't care about logic."
Leonard smiled, a little too fascinated.
"It's the romance of the open road. Recklessness, passion... that's the whole vibe."
"Exactly," Howard added, swallowing hard, eyes glued to the scene.
Raj, who had looked ready to leave during the first act, now wore a grin like a kid sneaking into an R-rated movie.
Emily, seated a few rows back, watched them with quiet amusement. Her gaze drifted to the screen again, where the red-haired woman had taken center stage.
"Of course," she muttered under her breath.
"There's always a redhead."
It was all too familiar. She'd seen hundreds of films growing up, sitting beside her father in their cramped living room, learning every beat before it hit.
Still, something about this actress caught her attention—not just her looks, but the way she moved, unafraid. It stirred something.
Memory. Maybe even a little envy.
"This what passes for freedom?" she thought.
"Wild hair, a leather jacket, and bad decisions on an open road?"
There was a kind of beauty in it, she had to admit. Reckless, messy, but magnetic.
Emily didn't usually romanticize things, but tonight, maybe she was in the mood for a little detour from reality.
And then—
"Oh, hell no."
Her voice cut the quiet for a beat as the screen exploded in violence.
The redhead's mouth was torn open by a barbed chain—fast, grotesque, sudden.
The theater shuddered with gasps and a few muffled curses.
Emily winced. She knew the formula—bait with seduction, follow with shock.
Still, it hit hard. That twist in the gut when lust flips to horror.
The crash of adrenaline that overrides everything else.
"That shift," she thought, "when heat turns into cold panic... always gets me."
She leaned back in her seat, heart pounding, trying to remind herself: it's just a movie.