Premiere

Since Wrong Turn was rated R, the premiere kicked off at midnight.

Christian leaned in toward Charlize, lowering his voice as they waited outside the "Night Owl" Theater.

"Nothing like a cursed hour for cursed stories."

Charlize stood beside him, arms folded, clearly unimpressed.

Christian didn't blame her. The "Night Owl" was a small, run-down theater tucked between a liquor store and a boarded-up bookstore.

It's paint peeled like old skin, and the marquee flickered like it had a secret to keep.

Hardly the venue you'd expect for a premiere.

He'd hesitated when Westwood, the producer, suggested the place.

But the man swore horror fans swarmed this spot after dark—said some even called it "three times scarier" than any other screening.

No one could explain why, but the numbers backed it up.

That wasn't why Christian agreed, though.

The place had been built over an old church—one with a history no one talked about anymore.

That detail sealed the deal.

Still, he didn't tell Charlize that. She wasn't upset about the venue—she was upset about the lack of flash.

No red carpet. No photographers.

Just the core team standing under buzzing lights.

Westwood had blown the budget on the Alan situation, and Christian didn't ask for details.

Charlize pouted. "I thought I'd get my red carpet moment tonight. I even sent Penny a couple of tickets. Was hoping she'd see me as a real lead."

Christian nodded, forcing a soft smile.

"You'll have your moment. Trust me, Sally. This one just isn't about the spotlight."

She didn't answer, but he saw her lips press together the way they always did when she was holding back a snarky comment.

Then she blinked. "Wait. Why did you want two tickets for back-to-back showings? You planning on comparing popcorn brands?"

He smirked. "You remember that second script I gave you?"

Her eyes narrowed. "The weird one you said made more sense the second time through?"

"Exactly. Some performances only reveal themselves in the repetition."

Her expression shifted from skepticism to realization.

"So you're saying…"

"I'm saying you brought the bottle like I asked, right?"

She nodded, tapping her purse. No more words. They knew what was coming.

Meanwhile, just outside the "Night Owl," four guys loitered near the entrance, squinting at the ticket stub in Leonard's hand like it held a hidden message.

"Sheldon," Leonard said with a sigh, "it's a horror movie, not a death trap."

"She's your friend, Leonard," Sheldon replied, arms crossed.

"If she got these tickets from some mysterious 'friend,' it's only logical to ask questions."

"Petunia isn't mysterious," Howard chimed in.

"She's just dramatic."

Raj, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, added, "Still weird she gave us the tickets and didn't come herself."

Leonard shrugged. "Penny was proud of her friend landing a lead role, but showing up? That's different. Maybe she didn't want to be the jealous ex-roommate."

Howard raised an eyebrow. "So we're here because of emotional politics?"

Raj nodded solemnly. "And because the tickets were free."

They all turned toward the glowing sign above the entrance.

Wrong Turn. Midnight.

Sheldon sighed. "Statistically speaking, horror films watched in dilapidated locations are 17% more immersive and 64% more regrettable."

Howard nudged him forward.

"Great. Let's go regret this together."

Raj wore a crooked smile. "You know, if you never say anything around women, they start treating you like a human confession booth. Or a giant pillow. I didn't ask for this life—I just ended up in it."

Leonard clapped him on the shoulder.

"You suffer for us all, brother."

Raj gave a theatrical shrug. "I'm used to it. Still not sure I want to sit through Wrong Turn, though."

He glanced at the faded poster taped to the theater wall and instinctively stepped back a little.

The movement earned a short laugh from Howard.

"I thought you said American horror doesn't scare you anymore," Howard teased.

"It doesn't," Raj said evenly.

"But my bladder disagrees."

"...Right."

Leonard stepped toward the doors.

"Come on. The premiere's starting soon. We've already missed the first few teasers."

Behind them, Emily rolled her eyes at the group dynamic.

"Four grown men and not one of you can handle a horror flick without backup?"

She didn't say it kindly, but she didn't mean it cruelly either.

Just the way someone talks when they've spent more time around fear than comfort.

She had only turned eighteen last spring—technically just old enough to see an R-rated film without a fake ID—but she'd been sneaking into screenings for years.

Her dad had run a video rental shop and used to gorge on horror flicks with dinner.

Claimed he'd once given Quentin Tarantino career advice.

Emily had never believed him. She liked horror for its own sake—watched it alone, in the dark, with the sound cranked.

It wasn't about rebellion. It was about control.

She squinted up at the poster again. The tagline read:

"Watch it twice. See what you missed."

Was it just marketing? Or something else?

She shook the thought loose.

"Whatever. The show's starting. Let's grab popcorn and find seats before someone else takes the good ones."