Storytelling is momentum. Each scene, each page, each panel builds pressure. With Bloodbath on Unholy Island, I’m testing how much tension I can hold before it snaps.
In my last post, I shared Scene 1, a beginning told across four spreads. Wide. Expansive. A space to establish tone, mood, and movement.
Now the story contracts.
Scene 2: Frank
Scene 2 shifts the energy. Where Scene 1 unfolded across four spreads, this one compresses into just two spreads—four pages. The contrast is intentional. The pace tightens. The focus narrows.
Instead of wide establishing moments, we’re now trapped in a car at night. It’s Rom and Frank, face to face. The dialogue drives the panels, but it’s the silences, the looks, the rhythm of headlights cutting through dark that really carry the mood.
The Spreads
In layout, these two spreads play almost like a stage scene—contained, claustrophobic, lit by dashboard glow. The panels ride on tension. There’s no escape here, for Rom or the reader.
Frank is all swagger and menace, his grin sharp against the night. Rom, locked beside him, is silent calculation: how to survive, how to keep this unpredictable stranger calm. The beats are small, but the threat grows in every frame.
By the end of the sequence, we land at a shabby petrol station. Its fluorescents buzz, throwing harsh light onto cracked tarmac, but it’s no relief. The building is isolated, hunched in the dark landscape. Rom is still captive, still under Frank’s shadow, walking toward the shop like a man stepping deeper into a trap.
The Process
This is where the real work of pacing shows itself. I’m finding how much story a single spread can carry. How tight can I keep it? How long can I hold a beat before it snaps? The script is one thing, but the spreads are where the tension lives.
As before, these pages are roughs—drafts. They’ll shift. They’ll sharpen. What matters is that the story is alive in them.
What’s Next
With Scene 2, I’ve now sketched six spreads in total. That’s twelve pages of the thirty-two-page rough draft I’m aiming for. Next up: Scene 3. The vice turns tighter, crushing the air out of the situation. The tension will rise, scene by scene, pushing Rom into a corner as the story drives toward an explosive few sequences.
For now, here’s the script for Scene 2 in full—words on paper before they became images on the page.
Script: Scene Two – Frank
Black panels. The car hums through the night. The radio spits faint rock static under the engine.
PANEL 1: Interior. Rom sits rigid in the passenger seat, eyes cutting sideways at the driver. Mohawk. Army jacket. The spit image of De Niro in Taxi Driver—if he’d grown up in East London.
CAPTION (Rom, internal): Yeah. This is bad. This is real bad.
PANEL 2: Frank flashes a grin, taps the steering wheel in rhythm.
FRANK: “When I clocked you on the road, bruv, I thought—this geezer needs a hand. Time for Frank to step up!”
His laugh is loud, jagged. Rom doesn’t join in.
PANEL 3: Frank leans back, steering one-handed.
FRANK: “Lucky for you I was headin’ this way anyway. Got a bit o’ business to sort out. What about you then? You local?”
PANEL 4: Rom clears his throat, forcing calm.
ROM: “Passing through. American.”
FRANK (snorts): “Knew it. Yank. So what’s the crack? Work? Holiday?”
PANEL 5: Rom shifts in his seat.
ROM: “Inverness. Work. Improv gig.”
FRANK (barks a laugh): “Improv? What, makin’ shit up on stage? Bollocks. Sounds like bullshit to me.”
PANEL 6: Close on Frank’s grin—teeth white in the dashboard glow, eyes unblinking.
FRANK: “You don’t trust me, do ya? All twitchy. Can smell it on ya.”
PANEL 7: Rom presses his palms against his knees, breathing slow.
CAPTION (Rom, internal): Keep him talking. Keep him calm.
PANEL 8: Frank suddenly leans closer, voice low, conspiratorial.
FRANK: “You got a bird, Rom? Girlfriend? Wife? Bitches, mate—can’t trust ‘em. Never.”
PANEL 9: His grin curdles into something colder.
FRANK: “That’s my business up here. My ex nicked somethin’ off me. Precious. Mine. She thinks she’s clever. I’m gonna get it back… then paint the walls with her brains.”
PANEL 10: Rom’s face is tight, sweat crawling down his temple.
ROM (quiet): “…”
FRANK (snickers): “Relax, Yank. Garage is on the way. You’ll get your spare.”
PANEL 11: Wide shot. The car barrels down the road. Headlights carve the dark. A white building flickers into view ahead—lonely, glowing in the trees.
PANEL 12: Frank’s laugh fills the car.
FRANK: “Bet you thought I was gonna carve you up, dump you in the woods, eh?”
He claps Rom’s shoulder, hard enough to jolt him.
FRANK: “Don’t stress. You’re my little project, Rom. Ain’t nobody touchin’ you.”
PANEL 13: The car slows, pulling into the forecourt of a shabby petrol station. Harsh fluorescents buzz overhead.
PANEL 14: Frank cuts the engine, stretching.
FRANK: “Right. You go chat to the fella in the shop, see about your motor. I’m burstin’ for a slash.”
PANEL 15: Rom steps out stiffly, swallowed in the white light. He walks toward the glowing doorway, every step measured, his shadow stretching long across the tarmac.
CAPTION (Rom, internal): Keep moving. Keep it together.
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