INT. PATTI'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
JACK (26), wearing a sensible beige coat, stands in the doorway. He holds the coat like a shield.
PATTI (24), pale and sharp-featured, leans against the doorframe. She crosses her arms over a thin sweater.
I just don’t get it, Patti. Everything was fine yesterday.
That’s the problem, Jack. It’s always “fine.” I don’t want fine.
What do you want?
Patti stares at the beige fabric of his sleeve.
I want more.
Jack nods. He puts on his coat and turns away.
His sensible shoes make soft sounds on the linoleum.
The door SHUTS. The lock CLICKS.
Patti slides down the wood of the door until she hits the floor.
INT. PATTI'S APARTMENT - MORNING
A small HEART, carved from perfectly clear ice, sits on the exterior windowsill.
Patti slides the window open. Frigid air RUSHES into the room.
She touches the ice. Her finger leaves a faint, wet mark on the frozen facet.
She smiles.
INT. PATTI'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
Patti stands by the window, looking out at the fire escape.
A life-sized ice SWAN rests on the metal grating. Its neck is a long, elegant curve.
The tips of its wings are honed to edges sharp enough to draw blood.
Patti raises her phone. The SHUTTER CLICKS.
INT. APARTMENT HALLWAY - NIGHT
A snarling ice WOLF stands guard directly in front of Patti's door.
Its fur is a masterpiece of frozen texture. Its teeth are rows of tiny icicle daggers.
Patti crouches in the hallway, framing the shot on her phone screen.
INT. PATTI'S APARTMENT - MORNING
Patti sits up in bed. Her breath PLUMES in the dim, blue light of the room.
She stumbles to the front door and stops.
A six-inch sheet of clear ice covers the entire door frame, fusing the wood to the wall.
In the center, an ice DAGGER is embedded, pointing directly at the deadbolt.
Patti's phone BUZZES on the kitchen counter. She doesn't look at it.
She throws open the hallway closet and grabs a pink hairdryer.
She plugs the cord into the outlet by the door.
The motor ROARS to life.
Patti presses the nozzle against the ice near the lock.
Steam BILLOWS. Water drips onto her bare feet.
I’m coming.
The lights in the hallway FLICKER.
The hairdryer motor WHINES, pitching higher as it strains.
A blue-white flash STRIKES the outlet.
A loud POP echoes through the apartment.
The lights die. The motor stops.
Darkness.
The only sound is the steady DRIP of water in the black.