INT. JOHN'S HOUSE – BATHROOM – MORNING
The morning light spilled weakly through the frosted bathroom window. The air was cold, quiet, sterile. Steam clung to the mirror from the hot water he'd run moments ago—less for comfort, more to soften the pain that was coming.
John Booker stood shirtless before the mirror, the pale light catching the rugged ridges of old scar tissue stretched across his torso. His skin—what little remained untouched—was tight in places, gnarled and pink in others. His breath came slow, steady, but every inhale carried the weight of anticipation.
On the counter sat his usual tools: antiseptic, gauze, medical tape, scissors. His hands, wrapped tightly in old bandages now stained and fraying, trembled slightly as he began to unwrap them. Inch by inch, he peeled the fabric away, revealing raw, angry skin beneath.
John (muttering under his breath):
"Every damn morning..."
The bandages came away with a quiet stick and tear, pulling at skin that had never fully healed, skin that never would. As he peeled away the wraps from his chest and shoulders, a sharp hiss slipped through his teeth.
John:
"God... damn it."
The pain was a dull, constant throb beneath his skin—like something alive, like a fire that never really died. He pressed a clean cloth soaked with antiseptic against a patch near his collarbone and instantly grit his teeth, shoulders tensing. The burn wounds flared up in protest.
John:
"You'd think after all these years... I'd be used to it."
He looked at himself in the mirror—not at his wounds, but into his own eyes. Dark. Hollow. Tired.
John (softly):
"But pain's the one thing that always shows up on time."
He moved on, carefully dressing the burns on his back and sides. Each movement was slow, deliberate. If he was careless, the skin could split open again. Infection was always waiting at the door.
Then came the hardest part.
He reached up and began unwrapping the bandages around his head, the ones that had become like a second skin. Underneath, the left side of his face bore the worst of it—melted, twisted flesh where cheek and jaw had once been smooth. His ear was gone, replaced by a deep scar that vanished beneath the wrap around his neck.
He avoided looking too long in the mirror.
John:
"No breakfast again. Too early for food. Too late for peace."
Once the new wrappings were in place—clean, tight, sterile—John finally exhaled. It wasn't relief. Just the end of another routine. Another box ticked on the checklist that kept him alive.
He walked out of the bathroom, threw on his coat, and opened the front door. The cold morning air hit him like a wall.
But he welcomed it.
EXT. SUBURBAN STREET – MORNING
He started walking down the sidewalk, passing the houses of people who didn't know his name—just his shape. The man in bandages. The ghost. The mummy.
And he let them stare.
Because it didn't matter anymore.
INT. LITCHFIELD ELEMENTARY – CAFETERIA – MIDDAY
The lunchroom buzzed with the usual energy of children enjoying their break — trays clattered, conversations overlapped, and laughter occasionally echoed off the high ceiling. The scent of tater tots and lukewarm mac and cheese floated faintly in the air.
At one of the corner tables — usually reserved by sheer consistency for a very specific group — Erma, Amy, Terry, and Connor sat together, as they always did.
Erma quietly opened her neatly packed lunch: seaweed rolls, rice, a thermos of hot miso soup. Her friends were already mid-bite — Terry loudly crunching into a sandwich overloaded with chips, Amy picking daintily at her salad, and Connor sipping from a juice box, looking nervously over his shoulder.
Just as Erma reached for her chopsticks, a shadow swept past their table. Not threatening — just different. She looked up slowly.
It was one of the rodent kids.
A short boy, maybe their age, covered in brown fur, long whiskers twitching with curiosity. His ears perked slightly as he passed, clutching a cafeteria tray with both clawed hands. He glanced around, unsure, then sat down at an empty table further down the row.
It had only been a few days since the truth had come to light. Since the rodent people — once hidden — were now above ground, attending classes like everyone else.
Erma's eyes followed him for a moment longer, her expression unreadable, before she calmly resumed eating.
Amy, ever the optimist, beamed and leaned forward.
Amy:
"Looks like the new kids are fitting in just fine."
Terry, resting his feet on the bench and reclining like a wannabe rockstar, nodded.
Terry:
"Yep. And the best part? We didn't even get detention for breaking into the school! Props to Principal Phibes for that one."
Connor didn't look so sure. He fidgeted with the straw in his juice box, eyebrows furrowed.
Connor:
"I dunno… He told us we wouldn't get in trouble as long as we didn't say anything about seeing him… you know… down there. In the city under the school."
The group went quiet for a moment.
Even Terry blinked.
Connor (more quietly):
"Doesn't anyone think that's… a little weird?"
Just as the silence thickened, a voice broke through it.
Sidney (softly):
"Uh, hey… mind if I sit here?"
They turned. It was Sidney Delapore — now in her rodent form again, hair neat, school uniform crisp, but with the slightest nervous smile on her face.
Erma, always the calm and kind one, gave her a gentle smile and scooted over without hesitation, patting the space beside her. Sidney nodded in thanks and carefully set down her lunch.
As Sidney opened her box, Erma's eyes immediately locked onto something.
The lunchbox lid.
It had a bright, glittery design of four magical unicorns in shining armor — the logo clear as day: "WARRIORS UNICORN PRINCES".
Erma blinked. That was her favorite show. The one she never told anyone about because she thought no one else watched it. Her hair twitched slightly with excitement.
Before she could say anything, Terry, predictably, leaned in with a smug grin.
Terry:
"I dunno, Sidney… This is kinda the cool kids' table."
There was a beat of awkward silence. Then — suddenly — one of Erma's ghostly black tendrils of hair shot out behind Terry, snatched his milk carton from the tray, and — with impeccable aim — squeezed.
SPLASH!
Milk sprayed all over Terry's face and hair, dripping down his nose and soaking his shirt. He blinked in shock, mouth agape.
Amy burst into laughter, nearly falling sideways on the bench.
Amy (giggling):
"Terry! Oh my gosh!"
Connor chuckled nervously, while Sidney covered her mouth, trying not to snort. Erma, impassive as always, raised a spoonful of soup to her lips — but there was a small, satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
Terry (wiping his face):
"I've been attacked… by dairy…"
Everyone erupted into louder laughter this time, including Sidney.
And in that moment, as the rodent girl laughed with her new friends, she didn't feel like an outsider anymore.
INT. JOHN BOOKER'S HOUSE – LIVING ROOM – LATE AFTERNOON
The room is dimly lit. Faint rays of golden sunlight push through the blinds, casting long shadows across the modestly furnished living room. A black television screen sits quietly, like a void staring back at the world.
John Booker is slouched on his worn-out sofa, body tense even in rest. He's fully dressed in his usual attire — dark long-sleeved shirt, pants, combat boots — all weathered from use. Bandages tightly wrap his head, jaw, neck, and arms, hiding most of the damage beneath.
He doesn't move. Doesn't blink.
Just stares.
Stares at the blank screen.
At first, it seems like he's deep in thought — eyes locked forward, unmoving. But then we realize…
He's asleep.
Wait, what?
Yeah. Asleep. With his eyes open.
The camera zooms in ever so slowly on his face. No rise and fall of breath. No twitch. A dead stare.
JOHN (murmuring in his sleep):
"…Yori…"
Suddenly —
CRACKLE.
POP.
ZZZZZT.
The TV screen sparks to life with loud static. Loud, grating white noise fills the silent room. John doesn't flinch at first.
Then—
A distorted black shape starts to form inside the screen.
First a hand, long and black-haired, emerges from the static like a ghost being born. Then a head, draped in black strands that fall like a veil. The small body of a child pulls itself out of the screen like water dripping from a faucet, feet landing silently on the living room floor.
The room is dead still.
Until—
John's hand twitches. His eyes shift.
Then—
Like a switch flipping—
JOHN EXPLODES TO LIFE.
He jerks upright, draws his custom-made Colt Single Action Arm — the famed weapon from the Winchester lore — black metal, etched with arcane symbols — and aims it DEAD-CENTER at the approaching figure's forehead.
JOHN (shouting):
"JESUS, KID!"
The figure freezes.
It's just Erma.
Looking calm. Holding a slightly crumpled piece of paper in her pale hands. No fear. Just confusion.
John lets out a deep breath, lowering his gun. His voice lowers, but the edge remains sharp.
JOHN (muttering):
"Almost blew your damn head off. Don't ever sneak up on me like that again… especially not from the damn television."
Erma, expressionless as always, simply holds out the paper.
He stares at her.
Still catching his breath. Still trying to understand how a ghost girl crawled out of his TV like something from a cursed VHS tape.
He holsters the Colt with a grunt.
JOHN (rubbing his eyes):
"First talking rats... now haunted Netflix. What's next, a vampire mailman?"
Erma offers no answer. Just waits.
John finally takes the paper from her.
The tension that once filled the room has evaporated, replaced with an overwhelming silence.
John stands there, still, staring at the small burned photograph now resting in his calloused, bandaged hands. The edges are singed. The image slightly faded — but unmistakable. Yori. Caught mid-laugh, warmth in her eyes, beauty frozen in time.
JOHN (voice cracking):
"This… this is what I lost…"
He looks down at Erma. She stares up at him, her face unreadable but her presence comforting, steady. No words are exchanged. Just the quiet understanding of a ghost child who knows what grief feels like.
John's body trembles.
He sinks to his knees.
Not from pain.
Not from fatigue.
But from the weight of memory.
JOHN (hoarse):
"You found it… the only thing I ever gave a damn about... thank you."
He pulls Erma into a tight, protective embrace — gentle, fatherly, desperate. For a man covered in scars and wrapped in bandages like a living corpse, he holds her like porcelain.
And Erma, small and soft, hugs him back without hesitation. Her long black hair drapes over his arm as her small hand presses gently against his back.
JOHN (murmuring):
"You know… I never told anyone this before."
He pulls away just enough to look at her. The photo trembles in his fingers as he shows her Yori's image.
JOHN (softly):
"Before I became... this husk… this ruined body… I was someone. I was a son. A brother. A friend."
He pauses, breathing hard, eyes distant.
JOHN:
"And I was a lover."
He touches the photo delicately, as if it were alive.
JOHN:
"I loved her. Her name was Yori. A yokai. Beautiful. Brave. Wild spirit. I was gonna ask her to marry me."
He clenches the photo tighter.
JOHN (voice darkening):
"But her father didn't like the idea of a human marrying his daughter. Said I wasn't worthy. So one night… he set me ablaze… lit me up like a torch…"
His eyes glaze over — lost in the fire.
JOHN:
"Then he threw me down a canyon. Left me to die."
Erma tightens her grip.
JOHN (low):
"But I didn't. I survived."
He wipes his eyes with a bandaged hand. The tears sting his cracked skin.
JOHN:
"For three years, I crawled through hell. Trained with hunters. Made friends with demons. Bled. Fought. Burned again and again — all to find one weapon. The one thing that could kill a monster like him."
He slowly sets the photo on the table and stares at it with haunted reverence.
JOHN:
"And when I found it… the Colt... I got on the first damn plane to Japan."
A bitter laugh.
JOHN:
"Thought I'd finally finish what he started. Get justice. Revenge. Something."
His voice begins to falter.
JOHN:
"But when I found her again… Yori… she wasn't alone."
He closes his eyes.
JOHN:
"She was holding two kids. Little ones. Smiling. Happy. Complete."
He lets out a long, quiet exhale, broken and ragged.
JOHN:
"I… I couldn't do it. I couldn't even speak. I just… walked away."
Silence falls.
He looks around the room — dim, still, lonely.
JOHN (quietly):
"And that's how I ended up here… in this town. Wrapped in rags. Living like a ghost."
Erma rests her head on his shoulder. No judgment. No questions. Just presence.
John, broken as he is, finds a strange peace in her stillness.
JOHN (softly, to himself):
"…Maybe ghosts aren't the scariest thing out there after all."
The room is dim. The air heavy with silence.
John sits on the worn-out couch, hunched forward, a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey resting beside him, glinting amber in the low light. In his hand, the burned photograph of Yori — fragile, crumbling at the edges, yet handled like sacred scripture.
Across from him, Erma sits cross-legged on the floor, watching him silently. She doesn't interrupt. She just listens, because something in her small ghostly presence tells her he needs this.
John stares blankly at the photo. His voice, when it finally comes, is hoarse — like it's being dragged out of his throat with splinters.
JOHN (low, broken):
"You know… every time I remember the night Osamu burned me alive…"
He swallows hard. His hand trembles slightly.
JOHN:
"...you'd think I'd remember the pain. The screaming. The smoke filling my lungs. But I don't. You know what I remember most?"
He looks down at Erma — haunted eyes, black and endless like a pit.
JOHN:
"It felt... peaceful."
He chuckles. A cold, humorless sound.
JOHN (continuing):
"Yeah. Peaceful. Like I was floating outside of myself... watching my body burn like paper. No sound. No fear. Just… stillness. Like death was holding me in its arms."
A long silence.
JOHN (quietly):
"And then I woke up."
He grips the bottle tightly.
JOHN:
"Woke up in a hospital halfway across the world. Screaming. Skin melted. Couldn't recognize my own face. Couldn't remember who I was. But the fire…"
He points to his chest, then his head.
JOHN (shaking):
"...the fire never left. I'm still burning. Every day. Inside. Out. No matter how much I wrap myself up, no matter how many painkillers or bottles I take, I'm still on fire, Erma."
His voice cracks now. Vulnerable. Exhausted.
JOHN:
"Michael… Trevor…"
He trails off. Names from a past life. People long gone — or left behind.
JOHN (almost whispering):
"And Yori..."
He clenches the photo again.
JOHN:
"She was supposed to be my peace. My future. My family. I was gonna marry her. Build something real. But her father… he made sure that dream died screaming."
His gaze darkens.
JOHN:
"You wanna know the worst part?"
A beat.
JOHN:
"Osamu should've finished the damn job. But he didn't. He left me like this. And now I'm just this… walking corpse with too many scars and nothing to live for."
Erma inches closer. Her hand reaches up, ghostly and cold, gently touching the edge of his bandaged arm.
John looks at her. A sad smile forms — barely there.
JOHN (soft):
"I'm not helping anyone by being here. I'm not saving lives. I'm just... surviving. And sometimes, Erma… sometimes I think maybe I wasn't supposed to."
He closes his eyes, the image of burning still etched behind his eyelids.
A moment of silence passes between them.
Then — John exhales, heavy and ragged, like it's the first breath he's truly taken in years.
Erma leans forward, rests her head gently against his arm.
No words. Just presence.
And for a single heartbeat, the fire doesn't feel quite so hot