Act I – The Arrival
The city hadn't stopped weeping.
Rain slicked the cracked pavement, distorting the neon glow into bleeding colors. Reaper's car came to a low, guttural halt outside the Mirage Nightclub—a crumbling temple of vice jammed between two collapsed buildings like rot wedged between teeth. From inside, the muffled pulse of bass throbbed like a dying heartbeat.
It was past midnight, and the line outside the club stretched like a serpent of chaos—laughing drunks, twitching junkies, and men with trembling hands trying to buy their way inside. Two bodyguards fought with a dealer who had no patience for protocol. Cigarette smoke curled under flickering neon.
Reaper sat still in the car for a moment.
Then—the shrill buzz of his brick cellphone.
He answered.
The voice on the other end oozed through the speaker, rough and controlled.
"Alright, listen up, kid. You've reached the Mirage, yeah? Good. You know the rules. Mikhail Borodin. Put him down. No witnesses. If his dogs bark—put them down too."
A pause. Then a drag of something heavy.
"When it's done, we'll call again. Don't disappoint us."
The line died.
Reaper slowly closed the phone. No questions. No hesitation.
He checked the pistol tucked behind his back. Loaded.
Then picked up the hammer. Heavy. Cold.
The door creaked open. Rain kissed the edge of his long coat. The water dripped down the smooth surface of his owl mask, running like sweat from a statue.
He stepped out and walked through the chaos like a ghost—unseen, untouched. The line parted slightly, as if something primal told them to.
Two bouncers blocked the front.
"The hell's with the mask?" one said, stepping forward.
Reaper stopped.
They looked down. The hammer in his gloved hand gleamed beneath the streetlight.
"Shit—he's got a—"
CRACK.
The first bouncer crumpled, skull shattered before the word could finish.
The second reached for something—anything—but Reaper moved like a phantom, bone-snapping clean into rain-slick silence.
A few people screamed. Most backed away slowly. No one tried to be a hero.
Reaper turned his masked face toward them—just for a moment.
Not a threat. Not a promise. Just a silent, brutal truth:
This city has no place for innocence.
He stepped inside the club.
The music swallowed him whole.
Act II – Bleeding Floors
The moment Reaper stepped inside the club, the world fractured into noise, color, and flesh.
The Mirage was no nightclub—it was a sensory war zone.
Bodies writhed under flickering strobes. A ceiling fan spun lazily, drowning in fog.
Sweat shimmered like oil. The music—a synth-drenched, pounding rhythm—shook the walls like gunfire.
He moved through the chaos like vapor.
Half-naked dancers collided with twitching dealers. Boys whispered lies into the ears of overdosed girls. Private rooms pulsed with red light and chemical rot. Laughter, moans, and screams melted together into a single sick rhythm.
Reaper's boots struck the ground like metronomes.
Then—his head cracked with sudden pain.
A high-pitched scream. A child. A flash of white.
His hand gripped the owl mask tightly.
No memory. Just the pain.
Then… silence.
He steadied himself.
No time for ghosts.
From the shadows of the dance floor, he looked up.
There.
Mikhail Borodin.
Wrapped in velvet, drinking like a god, surrounded by steel-faced men with hands on hidden holsters. His lounge sat in a one-way glass room above the chaos. Cold. Secluded. Untouchable.
Reaper's mind mapped the levels:
1. Main floor – he was standing in it.
2. Back corridors – the staff's artery. Dim. Useful.
3. VIP wing – Borodin's tower of smoke and paranoia.
Time to move.
Backstage Entry
Reaper slipped past the DJ booth and slipped into the shadows near the staff entrance.
Four men stood in the alley-like threshold, smoking and laughing.
He didn't speak. Just acted.
The hammer flew from his hand with silent fury—cracking the first man's skull open like porcelain. The others stood, startled.
"What the—? Get that freak!"
"He's armed! Take him down!"
They rushed.
Reaper met them like a storm. Elbow. Knee. Throat.
His movements were sharp and vicious, like someone who never learned to hesitate—only survive.
One of the men scrambled up, blood in his teeth, and flicked open a butterfly knife.
He lunged.
The blade plunged into Reaper's back.
No sound.
Not even a grunt.
He turned slowly, eyes burning behind the mask.
He yanked the knife from his own flesh and plunged it into the man's gut, twisting once before letting him drop.
The hallway beyond was dark, narrow—and guarded.
At the far end: security. Real ones.
Too many to count.
They saw the mask. They drew their weapons.
Reaper didn't hesitate.
He drew his .45 from behind his back—and opened fire.
Muzzle flashes lit the hallway like strobe lights.
The pistol barked with mechanical precision—each shot a punctuation mark on a sentence written in blood.
Shells clinked. Bodies dropped.
He didn't stop walking.
Act III – Blood in the Velvet
Upstairs, behind soundproof glass and velvet walls, Mikhail Borodin sipped his whiskey.
The room hummed with low jazz from a vintage speaker. Cigarette smoke drifted lazily through amber light.
Then—gunfire.
Distant at first. Controlled. Echoing from below like thunder rolling through bones.
Borodin turned his head slightly.
"What the hell is going on down there?"
Downstairs – The Descent
Reaper moved like a wraith through corridors smeared with blood and shadow.
His .45 pistol barked in steady rhythm—one shot, one body.
The background beat from the club still pulsed faintly through the walls, but now it was layered with screams, ricochets, and the dull thuds of collapsing men.
Violence came in measured steps.
He counted bullets by instinct.
Three.
Two.
One.
Click.
Empty.
No hesitation.
He knelt beside a fallen guard and snatched the man's sidearm without breaking stride.
A blocky MAC-10, still hot from previous bursts.
Crude. Loud. Perfect.
Kitchen Detour
He burst into the club's kitchen.
Fluorescent lights. Linoleum floor soaked with grease and water.
Chefs froze mid-motion. Confused. Blinking.
Then one reached for a knife.
Reaper moved first.
He grabbed a cast iron pan from a stovetop and cracked it across the cook's temple, sending him sprawling. Another chef lunged—blade raised—but Reaper sidestepped and drove the knife into his throat, then used the same blade to silence a third.
He didn't see enemies.
Only obstacles.
Only distance between him and the target.
Meanwhile – Borodin's Lounge
A guard stumbled into the private room, blood on his sleeves, panic in his breath.
"Sir—there's a man. Masked. He's cutting through everyone."
Borodin didn't blink.
"What kind of mask?"
"Owl, sir."
Silence.
Borodin's eyes narrowed.
He slowly sat down and reached for his weapon—an AK-47 resting beside a crystal decanter.
"Fucking hell," he muttered. "They sent an Owl."
The Upper Floor
Reaper climbed the staircase with the MAC-10 clenched in his fists.
His coat soaked. His mask dripping.
Blood painted the soles of his boots.
As he reached the VIP floor, the lighting shifted—red carpet, gilded walls, rows of closed doors.
A hallway built like a trap. Silent. Watching.
He wasn't alone.
Five men stepped into view—bodyguards.
Suited. Armed. Ready.
Reaper thought, just briefly:
"Yeah… this is going to get messy."
The guards opened fire.
Gunshots lit up the hallway like camera flashes.
Reaper dove behind the wall, returned fire—clean, calculated bursts.
One down. Two down.
Click.
Empty again.
A pause.
Smoke in the air.
Blood on velvet.
One of the guards laughed.
"He's out. That's it! He's done!"
Another joined in.
"Hah. In the end, the freak dies like the rest."
They stepped forward.
Reaper didn't move.
CUT TO BLACK.
FADE IN:
GREYHAVEN POLICE DEPARTMENT – 2015 INTERROGATION ROOM
Grainy tape recorder spins. Cigarette smoke curls into stale light.
A detective in his 60s, greying, weathered, stares across the table.
DETECTIVE MORROW (V.O.)
"July 10th, 1987. Mirage Nightclub.
Some called it the 'Red Wedding of 7th Avenue.'
Witnesses said it was like a goddamn ghost walked in wearing an owl's face… and left not a soul standing upright."
He leans forward, voice quiet, tired.
"You ever seen twenty-three bodies in a single night? I have.
And none of 'em had a chance to scream."
"No prints. No footage. No leads.
Just one word whispered across Greyhaven's gutters and guttersnipes:
Reaper."
He exhales, long and slow.
"You think this city's a dream? Nah…
It's a fever. A sickness.
And in '87... that sickness started bleeding."
TAPE RECORDER CLICKS.
FADE TO BLACK.