Girlcore | S2 E5 | SOMEBODY'S WATCHING ME

Brock Doom and Vera King should’ve been on the road already, bags packed, keys jingling, weekend plans unfolding neat and tidy. Then Susan, their eighteen-year-old knockout daughter Alina Lopez, flops back into bed with a thermometer between her teeth, looking clammy as yesterday’s sweat. Brock’s face twists tight. "She’s old enough to piss straight," he growls, ready to bolt. Vera wavers, muttering about faking, babysitters, cancelled flights. They scrape the words raw between them until the engine hums outside and the door clicks shut. Susan waits two heartbeats, yanks the hot-water bottle from under the sheets, and grins like the world just opened its legs. Alone. Finally. Underwear ride in the living room; hips roll to a silent beat. Then her phone splits the air. A rasp, wet lungs working too close to the receiver. Susan hangs up. The line shrieks again. "Lisa, cut the shit." Another click. Third ring. The breathing sounds like someone jerking off through broken teeth. She drops the phone, brushes the shiver off, and pours herself into the glow of a late-night slasher on the bedroom TV. Outside glass, a shadow edges in. Knuckles hammer wood. Susan freezes, ears pin-pricked, breath caught. Another slam, this one deeper in the hall. She creeps to the knob, muscle over bone, cracks it open—nothing but darkness breathing back. Relief ghosts out of her until the bell goes off like a pulled tooth. The front door swings half an inch and a half-naked Gia Paige stumbles inside, half-mad, half-naked, screaming "Hide me!" Fingers bite Susan’s wrist; they tumble backward. Lights die. A shimmering panel crawls from Gia’s bag—glowsticks lashed to steel pegs pulsing color. "It hates the light," she pants, tearing the rest of her clothes free. Susan stands rooted. "Who the fuck are you?" Name’s Amy. Nineteen. Shackled for months in some blackened warehouse where machinery clanks and government labels whisper. A thing wants inside. Only way to kill its hunger: skin on skin, raw and shaking. The bedside lamp snaps on; bodies slam together, tits pressed, legs hooked, mouths urgent. Heat flares against shadowed glass. Enough to hold the monster? Amy’s still swallowing half her truth.