Audience screams (but not in terror—in recognition).
The air is thick with static and cheap whiskey. The ROADHOUSE band has just finished a dissonant chord that lingers like a bad memory.
He doesn’t. He never does. But he clicks “Download” anyway.
JAMES (whispering) Is it about the bunny?
WOODSMAN (V.O.) We live inside a download. A slow, corrupted file. You want the complete experience? You must accept the bandwidth.
WOODSMAN (standing abruptly) No. It’s about the torrent. And whether you seed before the curtain call.
JAMES looks up. The Woodman’s mouth moves, but the voice comes from everywhere and nowhere—the jukebox, the ice machine, the buzzing neon sign.