At that moment, on the giant cinema screen, Emily squinted, trying to remember the hero's name.
Chris, was it?
Funny—it wasn't often the protagonist in a horror movie was also the hunter.
Usually, that role belonged to the monster.
She thought of Nightmare on Elm Street.
Most people remembered Freddy's name right away. But Johnny Depp?
Few recalled he'd even been in it. Same with Freddy vs. Jason—the crossover wasn't exactly a masterpiece, but it sold tickets.
Horror movies had their strange gravity.
In the end, the heroes—if you could call them that—were often just there to die.
Onscreen, Chris and his ragtag group fled a cabin, chased by warped, monstrous figures.
Chris limped badly, his leg bleeding, slowing them down.
One of the four survivors, Scott, glanced back, then made his choice.
He broke away, drawing the creatures' attention so the others could steal a battered truck and escape.
Emily leaned forward.
"He's done for," she murmured.
It wasn't cynicism; it was pattern recognition.
In action flicks, a sacrifice like that might work. In horror? Only if the director was feeling generous.
Sure enough, Scott led the monsters away, adrenaline in every stride—until an arrow whistled through the trees and struck him down, right as he reached the truck.
The three remaining survivors gunned the engine, rattling down the dirt road, only to find it blocked.
Barricades loomed in their headlights, already waiting for them.
Forced out of the vehicle, they scrambled toward an old observation deck.
"This place is a trap," Emily muttered.
But the movie gave them a brief reprieve.
The monsters hung back, unable to advance across the cliffside deck. It felt too easy.
"This won't hold," Emily said, more to herself than anyone.
Predictably, it didn't. As the survivors tried to radio for help from a rusted emergency unit, flames crackled below.
The creatures had set the woods alight, smoke curling up around the platform.
"Clever bastards," Howard remarked beside her, oddly admiring.
A quiet cough behind him silenced him. He shifted in his seat, shrinking under the weight of earlier warnings.
Onscreen, the three survivors climbed desperately toward a towering pine to escape the fire.
It was a narrow, treacherous path—every foothold a risk.
"They won't die by accident," Emily said dryly.
"It's never the fall. It's always something… crueler."
And she was right. Carly, the last supporting actress, almost made it up the trunk before a shadow swung an axe from the branches above, cleaving her mid-climb.
"Down to two," Emily counted under her breath.
"Soon, just one."
In the back row, Charlize—the film's lead actress—watched herself on screen with quiet detachment.
She already knew how it would end. The heroine's fate was sealed the moment cameras rolled.
Beside her, Christian leaned close.
"Hell of a performance, Sally," he whispered.
She gave a small nod, hesitating.
"Thanks… but what about the scenes with Alexis? I haven't seen those yet."
Christian tapped his temple, as if weighing something unseen.
Then he stood.
"Come on. Let's talk."
"What? Now? The movie's not over—"
"Doesn't matter. There's another premiere tonight. One a little… closer to home."
"…Alright."
Reluctantly, she rose and followed.
As they slipped out the exit, Christian lit a cigarette—not out of habit, but ritual—the kind of man who always seemed halfway out the door anyway.
And just like that, he became the first to leave his own premiere.
----------
Kate Todd knew tonight was the premiere of Wrong Turn, but she wasn't going.
It wasn't because she wasn't interested—far from it. She'd been immersed in the Alan McElroy case for months.
The film had stirred her curiosity, especially given the strange coincidences surrounding it.
If the higher-ups hadn't shot her down, she would've pushed for legal action to screen the film under suspicion of hidden evidence.
She'd filed the paperwork, but without solid proof, it was dismissed.
As frustrating as it was, Kate hadn't found evidence linking the Wrong Turn crew to Alan's disappearance.
Even Christian Booth, the film's new director and her primary suspect early on, had an airtight alibi.
She hadn't even met him—every attempt to probe his background only led to dead ends.
The rest of the crew checked out, too.
And now, with the discovery of Eliza Kunis' body—and two others—in Vinales Valley, the case had taken an even darker turn.
The cause of death was as elusive as Alan's; the timeline was a blur. Nothing fit cleanly.
Kate leaned back in her chair, staring at the case board.
Threads of evidence crossed like a spiderweb, but every connection felt loose.
"Maybe there's a killer hiding in Vinales Valley," she muttered.
That's what the media had been saying for weeks: a faceless predator, a shadow in the wilderness.
The headlines hadn't helped.
Every article, every news segment piled on the pressure, muddying public perception and making the FBI's job harder.
If it was a serial killer—or worse, some random psychopath—then profiling was useless.
No pattern meant no leverage. All they had were bodies, theories, and questions.
And now, another wrinkle.
"Is this call legit… or just another prank?"
It was after midnight. Kate hadn't left the office because dispatch had forwarded a strange tip: someone reported seeing a man dragging an unconscious—or maybe injured—person deep into Vinales Valley.
The voice on the line had been odd-high-pitched, helium-like, distorted.
The call came from a payphone, lasted less than a minute, and ended before they could trace it.
Kate exhaled slowly. "Could be nothing. Or it could be the lead we've been waiting for."
Still, the memory of past hoaxes gnawed at her. They'd had prank calls before.
Teenagers chasing headlines. Locals stirring the pot.
People are playing games with real stakes.
And yet… they couldn't ignore it. Not now. Not with three dead.
It wouldn't just be a mistake if they blew this off; it turned out to be real.
It'd be negligence. She could already see the headlines: FBI Ignored Tip, Killer Escapes Again. It wouldn't just ruin her but drag her whole department down.
In today's world, the media lived for scandals.
The FBI, the government, the military—every institution was fair game. Every failure was a chance to burn them in print.
Kate stood, grabbing her jacket.
"We're doing this tonight."
She radioed her team, calling in resources for a full sweep of the valley.
Even if it was nothing, they had to cover it.
Too much was riding on this case.
As she loaded her sidearm, she muttered, "Whoever made that call… better pray we never find you."
She stepped out into the night, headlights flickering across the parking lot as agents rolled in.
Somewhere out there, in the dark folds of Vinales Valley, was an answer. Or another dead end.
Either way, she was going to find it.