01 Vignette: "Goodbye"
Location: The Study at Ravenshold Keep, deep within the walls of the Hunters Enclave. Thunder rolls outside the leaded-glass windows. Bookshelves rise like tombstones behind Abraham Van Helsing as he sits in a high-backed leather chair, a folded letter trembling softly in his gloved hand.
[VAN HELSING] sits motionless, his lined face creased with a mixture of exhaustion and disbelief. His eyes scan the page—again. The ink is neat, elegant. Too calm. That calm is what unsettles him most.
The Letter (Voiceover: Mina Harker)
“Dear Abraham,
I know you will read this with worry. I know it will hurt. For that, I am truly sorry.
But I need time. Time to understand what’s happening to me… what’s waking inside. This is not a mission. It’s not a hunt.
It’s a path I must walk alone.
You and the Enclave have given me purpose, protection, and something I never thought I’d feel again—belonging. But the truth is, I can’t keep fighting when I don’t understand what I’m becoming.
I don’t leave in anger. I leave in gratitude. I will never forget your kindness.
Please… don’t follow me. Don’t send anyone. I am not lost. I am searching.
I will come back. But only when I know who I am.
With all my strength,
—Mina”*
The voice fades. Lightning flashes against the glass, casting warped shadows across Van Helsing’s face. The candle on his desk gutters low.
The creak of a door interrupts the silence.
GRETEL (softly, cautious) “Abraham... Mina?”
VAN HELSING (without looking up, handing her the letter) “Gone.”
GRETEL (reads quickly, her jaw tightens) “She didn’t even say where.”
VAN HELSING (stands, his silhouette tall and grave in the stormlight) “She doesn’t want us to know.”
GRETEL “Are you going after her?”
VAN HELSING (after a pause) “No. We give her space.”
Gretel watches him, reading the strain in his usually unshakeable frame. She walks forward and places a hand gently on his shoulder.
GRETEL (quietly) “She’s strong, Abraham. She’ll be fine.”
VAN HELSING (nods slowly) “She has to be.”
She squeezes his shoulder once, then exits—boots silent on stone. The door closes with a soft click.
Van Helsing sits again. His eyes flicker to an old photo on his desk—of Mina, years ago, smiling with a fierceness he no longer sees in her reflection.
He exhales deeply, then picks up a sleek, black phone. Dials. Waits.
VAN HELSING (low, measured) “…Hello. It’s Van Helsing.”
(pauses) “She’s gone.”
(another pause) “I don’t know where. Not yet. I just wanted you to know.”
(soft sigh) “…Goodbye.”
He hangs up. The camera lingers as he closes his eyes, the candle flickering lower, nearly out.
FADE TO BLACK
[Soft piano over strings fades in]
Text on screen:
“A storm is coming. And she walks straight into it.”
02 Vignette: The Adventures of the Misfits of Mayhem Episode 004.5 "Search for the Sister"
Scene: A modest apartment in a quiet neighborhood. Rain patters softly against the windowpanes, and the faint hum of a streetlamp buzzes outside. The clock ticks audibly in the otherwise silent space.
The front door creaks open. A woman enters—red hair pulled back into a tight bun, a weary look in her eyes. She wears scrubs beneath a long trench coat, the hospital tag around her neck slightly askew. It’s been a long shift.
MOLLY MASON, mid-30s, competent and guarded, steps into the apartment. She flicks on the hallway light with one hand while the other hangs up her keys and coat with the efficiency of routine.
As she moves into the living room, her pace slows. Her eyes narrow.
Something’s wrong.
She freezes—just for a second—but enough to feel the hairs on her arms raise.
Her voice sharpens:
MOLLY "Who's there? What are you doing in my apartment?"
She fishes a can of mace from her purse, flipping the safety with a trembling thumb. With her other hand, she slams the light switch.
A bright glare fills the room.
Sitting calmly in a shadowy armchair near the window is a broad-shouldered man clad in a long dark trench coat. His head is shaved close, his posture poised but unreadable. Dark sunglasses hide his eyes.
MOLLY "I said—answer me. Or else."
The figure remains still for a beat—then slowly reaches into his coat. Molly tenses.
But instead of a weapon, he draws a folded black face mask bearing the skeletal grin of Negropolis. He holds it up.
MAN "I mean you no harm, Molly Mason."
She blinks, confused, lowering the mace just slightly.
MOLLY "Negropolis?"
He nods solemnly, his voice deep and calm.
NEGROPOLIS "I apologize for showing you my... horrendous visage. But I could not risk certain people knowing I am here."
Molly looks him over, puzzled. “Horrendous”? The man before her, though intense, seemed perfectly normal. Even handsome, in a haunted sort of way.
MOLLY "You’re… not what I expected."
NEGROPOLIS "Many monsters wear prettier masks."
She remains cautious, but curious.
MOLLY "So what do you want from me?"
NEGROPOLIS "It’s not for me. Jack Mason—your cousin—needs help. And from what I understand… Polly Mason might be the key to helping him through this. But we can’t find her."
Molly exhales, suddenly softer.
MOLLY "Yes… I heard about your penguin. Flippers, right? Tragic."
A flicker of sympathy crosses her face.
MOLLY (continued) "But you should know… I’m not close with Jack. Or Polly. We’re not exactly the Brady Bunch."
Negropolis leans forward.
NEGROPOLIS "Still, I hoped you might know where she went after her last match?"
MOLLY "Not really. She didn’t say much. Though there were whispers she might be heading north… maybe up your way. Toward the Pole."
Negropolis stiffens slightly.
NEGROPOLIS "She was coming north? When?"
MOLLY "Almost three weeks ago now."
He rises, towering but courteous, his tone respectful.
NEGROPOLIS "You’ve been helpful. Thank you."
He turns to go—but she hesitates.
MOLLY "There’s something… you should know about Jack."
He stops.
NEGROPOLIS "Go on."
She walks slowly toward the kitchen counter, as though dredging up a long-buried memory.
MOLLY "When Jack was a kid, he had… issues. He was mean. Cruel, even. Him and Polly—they were like twin terrors. But then one day… something changed. He became quiet. Kinder. Like a different person altogether. I don’t know what happened—if it was trauma, maturity, or something else entirely."
She sighs, deeply conflicted.
MOLLY (continued) "But after that, he and Polly drifted apart. She always said he wasn't really her brother anymore. That the old Jack was gone."
Negropolis stands silent, absorbing the weight of the words.
MOLLY (softly) "The whole family was a little... odd."
He nods once.
NEGROPOLIS "Thank you. Truly."
MOLLY "Jack’s lucky to have a friend like that looking out for him."
NEGROPOLIS (snorts) "I just need my tag team partner at top capacity to keep our tag titles ..."
As he steps into the hall and closes the door behind him with a click, Molly stands alone—staring at the empty chair.
Her earlier fear is gone. Replaced by something else.
Cut to: Exterior — Night. Negropolis walks down the dark sidewalk. His silhouette disappears into the rain as thunder rolls above.
FADE OUT.
03 Vignette: “The House Always Wins”
The golden hues of the setting sun spill through the front windows of Maple & Mugs, casting a warm glow over the rustic café. Nestled on a quiet street in downtown Toronto, the café feels like a world away from the noise and chaos of the city—a hidden gem known only to locals and the occasional traveler seeking a moment of peace.
The interior is equal parts vintage charm and inviting comfort. Exposed brick walls are lined with shelves of weathered books and tiny potted succulents. A faint jazz piano melody drifts from a speaker near the back, mixing with the gentle hum of a milk steamer and the comforting scent of cinnamon, espresso, and freshly baked croissants.
At a corner table near the window, Grinch Heyman—dressed sharply in a tailored charcoal coat with a scarf draped over one shoulder—sits with a steaming cup of what the barista calls “Toronto’s finest roast.” He sips slowly, savoring both the flavor and the rare anonymity the café affords him. He’s deep in thought, a half-eaten butter tart resting on a small plate beside him.
The soft chime of the doorbell rings. Heads don’t turn—except Heyman’s.
Standing in the doorway is Rudolph, NPCW North Pole Champion, still in civilian clothes but unmistakable nonetheless. He scans the café and locks eyes with Heyman. Without a word, Rudolph strides over and sits across from him.
There’s a moment of silence between the two. The ambient noise of the café fades into the background as the weight of recent events fills the space.
RUDOLPH (quiet but firm) Tell me you didn’t know.
HEYMAN (sets down his cup gently, sighs) I swear on the last peppermint stick in my pocket—Rudy, I didn’t. What happened out there... that wasn’t the plan.
RUDOLPH (brows furrowed) Santa was supposed to be sidelined. That’s what we agreed on. Krampus was the one I was preparing for. That was the showdown we built to. And instead... he broke me. In front of the world. Santa... he changed.
HEYMAN (nods solemnly, voice low and measured) It wasn’t supposed to be like that. The House had contingencies. We talked about protecting you from Krampus’ chaos—not unleashing a feral Father Christmas on you. What he did... that wasn’t sanctioned.
RUDOLPH (leans in, voice sharpening) He wasn’t just wild—he was brutal. Cold. Like he’d forgotten who he was. Forgotten me. He looked through me like I was just another name on the Naughty List.
HEYMAN (leans back slightly, fingers steepled, always calculating) I won’t lie—this is a setback. But not the end. Look... you’re still Rudolph. You're the light that leads the sleigh, the heartbeat of the North, the face of the House. You shine, even when everything else goes dark.
RUDOLPH (scoffs, rising from the table) Save the monologue, Heyman. You like speeches. I like results.
HEYMAN (a faint smirk forming) Then trust me when I say... the story isn’t over. Sometimes the light needs the darkness to shine brighter. Santa’s fury is just a storm—you? You’re the guiding star. You’re still my beacon.
RUDOLPH (fixes Heyman with a glare) You’d better know what you’re doing, Paul. I’m not getting blindsided again. Not by Krampus. Not by Santa. Not by you.
Rudolph pulls up his hood, eyes still burning with a mix of betrayal and resolve. Without another word, he turns and exits, the door chime ringing softly in his wake.
Heyman watches him go, his smile fading slightly. He reaches for his cup again, stares into the swirl of dark roast inside. Beneath his breath, almost inaudible, he mutters:
HEYMAN "You shine brighter than you know, kid. Just hope you don’t burn out."
04 Vignette: “The Board’s Decision”
INT. KWO HEADQUARTERS – 52ND FLOOR – OUTSIDE MAIN BOARDROOM – LATE AFTERNOON
The door to the KWO Boardroom bursts open with a loud click-clack of heels on polished marble. Victoria Deschamps—Vice Chair of the Board of Directors, poised, fiery, and fashion-forward in a scarlet power suit—storms out, her expression a perfect storm of betrayal and disbelief.
Behind her trails the measured, deliberate steps of Alexander, Chairman of the Board. Impeccably dressed in a tailored three-piece midnight-blue suit with a silver pocket square, he adjusts his cufflinks as he calls after her—not loud, but firm, his tone carrying natural authority.
ALEXANDER “Victoria, please—hold up a minute.”
She stops just before the elevator, her back still to him. The silence between them is charged. She slowly turns, her eyes locked on his like cold steel drawn under velvet.
VICTORIA “This is a mistake, Alex.”
ALEXANDER (softly, hands clasped in front of him) “I know you’re upset. But you saw the numbers. The trajectory.”
VICTORIA (voice rising, but still controlled) “Numbers be damned! You think this is about profit margins and demographic reports? I’ve been fighting tooth and nail to hold the soul of this industry together—your vision. And now this?”
She shakes her head, the fire behind her eyes refusing to dim. Her voice trembles—not with weakness, but with conviction.
VICTORIA “This wasn’t a strategic adjustment. This was a concession.”
Alexander steps closer, not defensive, but composed—stoic in the face of her fury. His voice lowers like a gavel being set down.
ALEXANDER “We had to act. Sometimes... to save the kingdom, you sacrifice a tower. Or even a knight.”
Victoria draws in a breath, her jaw tightening. She looks at him with the conflicted gaze of someone who respects the man—but not the choice.
VICTORIA (quietly) “We’ll see in time, I guess.”
A beat. She inhales sharply, gathering herself.
VICTORIA “Regardless, I have to focus on next week. Count Vlad arrives Monday. The viper is slithering into the garden... and we’d better have the trap set before he strikes.”
That finally earns a faint smile from Alexander—a knowing, almost paternal glimmer of faith in her strength.
ALEXANDER “I have no doubt Vlad will find you... formidable, Victoria.”
She turns her eyes on him once more. Calm, deadly serious.
VICTORIA “If NPCW falls, Alexander... the whole KWO crumbles with it. Remember that.”
There’s no sarcasm. No melodrama. Just a simple, chilling truth. Alexander nods slowly, his expression grave.
ALEXANDER “I know. And that’s exactly why we had to do what we did.”
Victoria studies him for a long, silent moment—then nods, almost imperceptibly, and walks away down the corridor. The heels echo against the high-gloss floor like war drums fading into the distance.
The boardroom door creaks open again. Out steps Bernard the Elf, his suit ever so slightly rumpled, his tiny frame dwarfed by the oversized leather folder tucked under his arm. The meeting has clearly aged him—there’s concern etched into every line of his normally cheerful face.
He walks up beside Alexander, who remains staring down the hall where Victoria disappeared.
BERNARD (quietly) “Mr. Chairman... I want to thank you for the opportunity. Truly. But I must say—I agree with Ms. Deschamps. If NPCW collapses... so does the rest. This wasn’t just a chess move. It felt like a sacrifice.”
Alexander slowly turns to face him. And for a second, the glint in his eye is not cold or calculating—but steel wrapped in silk. His voice is calm, but edged with purpose.
ALEXANDER “Then Bernard, as the newly appointed Special Oversight Envoy between NPCW and the Board, I suggest you make damn sure that doesn’t happen.”
A long pause. Then Alexander adjusts his lapel, turns on his heel, and walks away with quiet dignity and the slow, deliberate cadence of a man who understands the stakes better than anyone.
Bernard watches him go, alone now in the polished silence of the corridor. He clutches his folder a little tighter, swallowing the lump in his throat as the elevator dings in the distance.
FADE OUT.
05 Vignette: “The Brutal Truth”
INT. THE BUNKER – UNKNOWN BASEMENT STUDIO – NIGHT
A single exposed bulb swings above a cluttered table in a dimly lit basement. This is The Bunker—a makeshift studio wired with cracked monitors, loose cables, tacked-up wrestling posters from decades past, and one glaringly bright ring light. The room hums faintly with the sound of cooling fans and old audio equipment. A microphone with black electrical tape wrapped around the base sits prominently on the desk.
DAVE “THE BRUTE” KENT sits center frame, hunched in front of his aging laptop. His signature black lucha-style mask obscures his face, but his fury is unmistakable—his fingers twitch with rage, his shoulders rise and fall with each breath. On-screen: a glowing email titled “Suspension and Disciplinary Action”. He reads aloud from the body of the message, voice thick with mockery and venom.
DAVE KENT (reading with scorn)
“...your unauthorized and deliberate interference with the Polar Power broadcast...” Oh, give me a break, Johnny.
(scrolls down with exaggerated disgust)
“...a severe breach of contract and a threat to the integrity of our brand...”
Integrity? You think running off the best analyst in the business is integrity?
He slams the laptop shut with a snap that echoes in the bunker. He turns slightly, looking just off-camera.
DAVE KENT (furious, growling) You think they can silence me? ME? The man who’s pulled the curtain back on every crooked deal, every backstage betrayal, every hack pushing their agenda in NPCW?
He glares into the camera now, fire behind the mask.
DAVE KENT They’re afraid of truth. That’s why they’re doing this. Not because I left my chair during Chill Factor. Not because I hijacked their precious feed. It’s because I exposed them. I am the voice of the people! The bringer of The Brutal Truth! And they hate that.
The bunker door creaks open gently. Light from outside the room spills in, silhouetting the elegant figure of J.R. HOLLAND. She steps in with practiced poise—black blazer, crisp jeans, and her hair tied back in a sleek ponytail. She moves with the presence of someone used to being in control of a live broadcast... and someone used to cleaning up Dave Kent’s emotional debris.
J.R. HOLLAND (softly but firmly) Dave... take a breath.
He doesn’t. He paces like a caged lion, his boots thudding on the concrete floor.
DAVE KENT (rattled, pointing at the laptop) Did you see this garbage? “Sabotage,” “slander”—I’ve given them years of insight, of passion, and now they paint me as a villain for telling the audience what’s really going on behind the curtain?
J.R. HOLLAND (level-headed) You did more than just talk, Dave. You hijacked two live feeds. You hacked Polar Power, cut into Chill Factor. You called the main event a “snow-covered farce” and declared the tag division “an insult to shoestring booking.”
DAVE KENT (shrugs defiantly) Was I wrong?
J.R. HOLLAND That’s not the point, Dave. You’re making yourself a target. They’re not bluffing about legal action. You keep this up, and it won’t be just suspension. You’ll be buried in so many cease-and-desists you’ll need a shovel to dig your career out.
Dave stops pacing. He turns to her now, eyes burning behind the mask—but there's something else in them. A flicker of doubt? Vulnerability? He grabs the microphone, presses the “ON AIR” button, and speaks as if into the void.
DAVE KENT (picking up his recorder) You hear that, Brutalists? They want to erase me. Pretend I never existed. But I won’t go quietly. I’ve got one thing left they can’t shut down. And that’s you. My loyal audience. My army of brutalists. If they won’t tell the truth... I will.
He finally exhales, the rage deflating just slightly. He turns back to J.R., his tone softening for the first time.
DAVE KENT ...Tell me, J.R... does HCW maybe have a chair for me at the table?
She raises an eyebrow, arms crossed. There’s hesitation in her smile—affection maybe, but concern too.
J.R. HOLLAND Maybe. I can ask when I get back to the studio.
DAVE KENT (wry) Think they’d let me run After Dark?
J.R. HOLLAND(with a touch of sarcasm) If you promise not to turn it into an hour of flamethrower rants and conspiracy charts...
He grins, just a little. The mood has lightened—but only slightly. The storm still simmers under the surface.
She walks over and rests a hand gently on his shoulder. Their eyes meet. There’s no need for more words. She turns and walks out of frame.
He sits back down in the bunker chair. He taps the microphone once. The light goes red again.
DAVE KENT (back to his recorder) They want silence. What they’ll get... is revolution. Brutal Truth—Issue 001goes live tomorrow. I’ll see you all... in the fallout.
FADE TO BLACK.
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