Morning arrived slowly on the Paramount backlot.

  Not with the bright optimism of sunlight, but with the low electric hum of studio lights warming themselves awake.

  The soundstage had been dressed to resemble a quiet suburban street.

  Fake lawns rolled neatly across the concrete floor. Painted houses stood shoulder to shoulder beneath scaffolding and lighting rigs. A plastic mailbox leaned slightly to one side as if someone had meant to straighten it and simply forgotten.

  Above everything hung a banner stretched across two metal beams.

  SCREAM 8 – FINAL SHOOTING WEEK

  The irony was impossible to miss.

  At a folding table near craft services, a small television flickered with the morning news.

  No one was eating.

  A cluster of actors stood watching the screen in uneasy silence.

  “…authorities are investigating the death of actor Matthew Lillard late last night,” the anchor said solemnly. “Police believe the incident may involve a copycat attack inspired by the Ghostface murders.”

  The camera cut to flashing police lights outside a suburban home.

  Yellow tape.

  Reporters speaking over each other.

  Someone on set muttered under their breath.

  “Jesus.”

  Melissa Barrera crossed her arms tightly as she watched the footage. Jenna Ortega stood beside her, pale and quiet.

  Neither of them had expected to return to this franchise.

  The negotiations had been delicate. The studio’s apology had been careful, public, and—most importantly—very expensive.

  But eventually the deal had been made.

  The new script tied their characters back into the story in a way that even the actors admitted was clever.

  Tara Carpenter.

  Sydney Prescott’s daughter.

  Two survivors from two different generations attending the same college.

  Two final girls orbiting the same story.

  And now, apparently, the same killer.

  “Police have not confirmed whether the incident is connected to the upcoming production of Scream 8,” the reporter continued.

  David Arquette exhaled slowly.

  “That’s… not good.”

  Courteney Cox sipped her coffee without looking away from the screen.

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  “Please tell me this is marketing.”

  Joel McHale—already in wardrobe as Mark Evans—shook his head.

  “If it is, it’s a terrible idea.”

  The news report cut to another clip.

  “Sources close to the production confirm that Lillard was scheduled to appear in the upcoming film.”

  That line landed heavily.

  Several people exchanged glances.

  Because that part had been secret.

  Matthew’s return had been the studio’s biggest surprise.

  The fans knew Skeet Ulrich had signed on again. That much had already leaked.

  But Matthew Lillard’s involvement had been locked behind layers of nondisclosure agreements.

  In the script, Stu Macher might have been alive.

  Or maybe he wasn’t.

  The story liked to play games with the idea.

  Sometimes he seemed like the killer.

  Other times he looked just as terrified as everyone else.

  No one outside the cast knew the truth.

  And now Matthew Lillard was dead.

  Skeet Ulrich stood near the coffee urn, flipping through his copy of the script like someone searching for answers hidden between the lines.

  “You know the funny thing?” he said finally.

  Everyone looked at him.

  “I still don’t know if Stu’s the killer.”

  Jasmine Savoy Brown raised an eyebrow.

  “You’re literally playing him.”

  Skeet shrugged mildly.

  “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  Mason Gooding laughed under his breath.

  “Fair.”

  At the far edge of the set stood three people who were new to this particular brand of cinematic chaos.

  Oliver Kushmore leaned against a stack of plastic storage crates, holding a paper coffee cup that had gone cold fifteen minutes ago.

  Next to him stood Trevor Spencer.

  Trevor looked like someone who had read the entire rulebook for surviving horror movies and wished everyone else would just follow it for once.

  His accent softened the edges of his voice.

  “Mate,” Trevor said quietly, “that’s… not normal.”

  Oliver glanced at him.

  “Neither are eight movies about the same serial killer.”

  Trevor considered this.

  “Fair point.”

  Between them stood Marie Janae.

  Marie possessed the sort of presence that made cameras instinctively drift toward her.

  In the film they were making, Oliver’s character had a quiet, hopeless crush on her.

  In real life, things were considerably less fictional.

  Oliver still tried not to stare.

  He failed.

  Marie noticed.

  She smirked.

  Across the set, the conversation among the veteran cast continued.

  Courteney lowered her coffee cup.

  “So let me get this straight,” she said.

  “The big secret cameo in the movie gets murdered by someone dressed like the killer from the movie.”

  David nodded.

  “That about covers it.”

  Joel McHale rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  “Hollywood’s going to love this.”

  Melissa finally spoke.

  “Does anyone actually believe this is random?”

  No one answered.

  Because the answer felt obvious.

  Oliver shifted his weight against the crates.

  He watched the group of actors who had spent decades portraying survivors.

  Then he took a slow sip of cold coffee.

  “You know what the problem is?” he said quietly.

  Trevor sighed immediately.

  “Don’t.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Oliver.”

  “This is literally how horror movies start.”

  Trevor rubbed his face.

  “Please don’t start doing the rules.”

  “I’m not doing the rules.”

  “Good.”

  Oliver paused.

  “…I’m just saying.”

  Trevor pointed at him.

  “No.”

  Marie laughed softly.

  Across the soundstage, Neve Campbell finally spoke.

  “Well,” she said gently, “until we know more, we probably shouldn’t panic.”

  Her voice carried the calm authority of someone who had survived this kind of story more times than anyone should reasonably expect.

  Melissa studied her for a moment.

  “You okay?”

  Neve smiled faintly.

  “Just tired.”

  Courteney patted her arm.

  “Mom life.”

  Neve nodded.

  “Mom life.”

  The explanation satisfied everyone.

  Because parenting and acting were exhausting enough without adding fictional murder sprees to the schedule.

  Across the room, Oliver watched the group thoughtfully.

  Then he leaned toward Trevor.

  “You know what the real problem is?”

  Trevor groaned quietly.

  “What.”

  Oliver gestured toward the actors who had spent thirty years escaping masked killers.

  “When the survivors start showing up in real life…”

  He took another slow sip of coffee.

  “…that’s when the killers usually show up too.”

  Trevor stared at him.

  Marie blinked once.

  Then the phone on the catering table began to ring.

  The sound echoed across the soundstage.

  No one moved.

  The ringing continued.

  Sharp.

  Persistent.

  Oliver slowly lowered his coffee cup.

  Trevor closed his eyes.

  “Oh no.”

  The phone kept ringing.