ACT I — THE LAST DOOR
Gunfire echoed down the velvet-draped hallway like a final warning.
Reaper crouched low behind the carved frame of a column, breath slow, eyes scanning the reflection of flickering red light on the polished floor. The MAC-10 in his hand clicked—empty.
Footsteps crept closer. Careful. Confident. Predators who thought they cornered a ghost.
He waited.
The first one rounded the corner. Reaper surged forward—steel and silence. The empty submachine gun cracked against the guard's skull like a brick. The man stumbled, and Reaper kicked out his leg, using the falling body as a human shield just as the hallway exploded in gunfire.
Bullets tore through flesh. The guard twitched violently. Reaper didn't flinch—he reached under the corpse's jacket, grabbed a fresh MAC-10, and returned fire.
Staccato bursts lit up the corridor in muzzle flare and screaming death.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Each body dropped like punctuation at the end of a brutal sentence.
Then—silence.
The hallway was painted in blood. Red mist clung to the wallpaper like smoke. Reaper's gloves were soaked, boots sticky with the ruin of men. Still, he moved forward—methodical. Focused.
No rage. No satisfaction. Just momentum.
He scooped up spare magazines from a dying man's vest and loaded the MAC-10 with a click that echoed louder than the gunfire that came before.
At the far end: the final door.
Beyond it—Borodin.
Inside the VIP Lounge
Borodin stood alone, pacing like a wolf in a collapsing cage.
His AK-47 clattered in one hand, a sweating bottle of whiskey in the other. Behind him, a wall of one-way glass overlooked the massacre. A grainy CCTV monitor showed Reaper's silent approach.
The old criminal muttered to himself, half drunk, fully scared.
"Fucking Owl… Let's see who dies first."
He set down the bottle and jammed a fresh magazine into his rifle. His finger twitched on the trigger. A madman's composure. The cold steel of panic.
Outside – Reaper Approaches
The Reaper moved like smoke toward the lounge.
The closer he got, the louder the thunder inside the door. Bullets ripped through wood and wall as Borodin unleashed hell through the entrance.
A few slugs grazed Reaper's shoulder—he spun behind the wall, breathing quiet through the mask.
And then—Borodin's voice cracked through the chaos. Not a threat. A confession.
"I know what this is! You think you can clean up your messes by sending him?! You think I'm just another loose thread?!"
Another wild burst tore chunks out of the door.
"You fuckers in your masks! You think I don't remember?! I saw what you did in Leningrad! You sent the Owl again?! You think I wouldn't recognize the mask!?"
Reaper stayed silent—listening. Calculating. Waiting for the weapon to click dry.
It did.
And then—he moved.
He kicked the door open like a judge handing down sentence, MAC-10 raised. A spray of bullets carved through the room, chewing through Borodin's knees, his shoulder, his hand as the AK clattered to the floor. The older man screamed and stumbled, collapsing onto blood-soaked velvet.
He wasn't dead.
Not yet.
Reaper stepped inside, boots crunching glass.
Borodin coughed blood into his lap. He looked up, eyes wide with something between fury and recognition.
"You... You don't even know who you are, do you?"
Reaper said nothing.
He just stared through the hollow eyes of the owl.
ACT II – PAPER QUESTIONS, BLOODY ANSWERS
The silence after a gunfight never feels right.
It's too still. Like the world forgot to breathe.
Borodin was slumped on the lounge carpet, bleeding from both leg and hand, trembling beneath the velvet glow of amber lamps. One arm clutched his shredded thigh; the other twitched beside the ruined body of his AK-47. His breath wheezed like a rusted accordion—half pain, half panic, half whiskey.
Reaper stood across the room.
Motionless.
Watching.
Breathing.
He didn't move to finish the job. Not yet.
Instead, he turned away and began… searching.
Borodin blinked. His pupils were dilated, blood smeared across his mouth. He tried to raise himself but slumped again.
"What the hell are you doing?"
No answer.
Reaper opened the lounge's desk drawer—useless junk. Cigars. Old betting slips. Dust. He slid it shut. Crossed to a cabinet near the minibar, knocked over a stack of vinyl records. Still nothing.
Borodin winced and coughed.
"Looting me while I'm still warm? That it?"
Still nothing. Reaper moved with the detached purpose of a man rebuilding a dream he hadn't woken from.
Behind the bar, he found it—a cheap motel pen and a folded piece of receipt paper.
That was what he'd been searching for.
He walked across the room. Sat down across from the dying man like this was just another motel lounge. He clicked the pen once. Then twice.
And began to write.
Borodin's brows furrowed. He let out a broken laugh, dry as gravel.
"You're fucking kidding me. You're gonna interview me?"
Reaper didn't look up. Just finished scribbling, folded the slip of paper, and held it up like a mute confession.
Borodin squinted.
Blood loss made the world blur.
On the page:
"WHO AM I?"
Borodin barked out a dying man's laugh—hoarse and ugly.
"Oh... oh they really sent a broken one. A blank fucking slate."
Reaper tilted his head. Calm. Mechanical.
He scribbled again. Slid a second paper forward.
"WHO ARE THEY?"
Borodin's smile faded.
That question stung.
"You think I'd tell you anything after what they did? After what you did?"
He spat thick blood to the floor. The air stank of sweat and metal and whiskey.
"You're just their dog. A mask. A ghost. You don't even know who's holding the leash."
Reaper leaned in.
One last question.
He scribbled slowly.
"WHAT HAPPENED IN LENINGRAD?"
Borodin froze.
His eyes—half-fading—twitched at the word. The owl mask stared back at him. Empty. Endless.
A long pause.
Then he spat again.
"Fuck you."
No regret. No fear. Just pure hate.
Reaper stood slowly. Calm as a closing curtain. He pocketed the questions.
Picked up the MAC-10 from the floor. Aimed it at Borodin.
Borodin sneered, defiant even as his blood soaked the carpet.
"What? You gonna finish me or—"
BRRRRRT.
The gun barked. Borodin's sentence never finished.
He dropped like a marionette with its strings cut—sprawled and silent.
Reaper lowered the weapon.
Silence returned.
Then—
RING.
The rotary phone on the bar started to buzz.
Reaper turned. Picked it up.
Same voice.
Smooth. Cold. Unshaken.
"This is going down as one of the cleanest jobs I've ever seen… You didn't disappoint us."
"Now—there's a silver suitcase in the back of the room, under the floor vent. Take it. Return to the motel. Someone will meet you there, collect it, and you'll get your coin. Rest up, kid. We'll call again when it's time."
Click.
Reaper put the receiver down. No reply. No expression.
Just function.
He scanned the room, moved to the far corner. Found the floor vent—partially dislodged.
Beneath it: the silver suitcase.
Heavy. Locked.
He lifted it. Held it for a moment. Then turned and left without a word.
He walked through the blood-slick hallway like a shadow retracing its steps. Past the bullet-stained walls. Past the bodies. Through the darkened dance floor now silent except for the soft hiss of dying neon.
Outside, the storm still wept across the city.
Inside, the Reaper vanished into the night.
ACT III – GHOSTS OF THE VELVET NIGHT
FADE IN:
INT. GREYHAVEN PUBLIC ARCHIVE ROOM – 2015 – NIGHT
Rain spatters gently against tall, dust-fogged windows.
A slide projector hums in the background.
Detective MORROW — 60s, worn leather face, yellowed fingers from too many cigarettes — stands before a projector screen, casting blurry black-and-white images on the wall.
Crime scene photos.
Burnt-out club walls.
A blood-soaked hallway.
The Mirage.
MORROW (V.O.)
"Back then, it was just another club in a city full of broken dreams. Mirage. Fitting name. Neon, drugs, gunmetal glamour.
But that night?
That night it became legend."
CUT TO: INT. GREYHAVEN RETIREMENT HOME – INTERVIEW ROOM
A retired security guard, RICHARD "RICKY" GALLAGHER, late 70s, sits across from a young documentarian.
Old. Shaking. Haunted.
RICKY
"I was workin' door backup that night. Thought it was just another junkie scrap. But then…"
(beat)
"The screaming stopped too fast.
And the silence that came after?
That wasn't normal."
INTERVIEWER (O.S.)
"What did you see?"
RICKY (quietly)
"A man. Or... something like one.
Walked through bullets like they were confetti.
Didn't flinch. Didn't talk. Just kept walking.
I saw the mask. Owl. Black. Eyes like holes in the world.
No soul behind 'em."
CUT TO: INT. POLICE RECORDS OFFICE – MORROW'S DESK
Detective Morrow flips open a case file labeled:
1987 // MIRAGE INCIDENT
CASE STATUS: UNSOLVED
VICTIMS: 23 DEAD // 4 MISSING
PRIMARY TARGET: MIKHAIL BORODIN – DECEASED
MORROW (V.O.)
"Borodin was no small fish. Connected to half the city's arms flow back then.
Russian outfit. Old money. Deep scars.
But someone wanted him gone—not just gone, erased."
(beat)
"We found his body in a velvet lounge.
Shot through the head.
No signs of struggle.
No camera footage left intact.
Just a ringing phone line and a suitcase we never found."
CUT TO: INT. CITY HALL ARCHIVES – OLD CCTV FOOTAGE
Distorted analog grain. Static.
A shadow moves through a bloodstained hallway.
Freeze frame.
Enhance.
Black owl mask.
MORROW (V.O.)
"Some say it was the feds.
Others whisper about something older…
Families that run things from the dark.
But the truth?"
(beat)
"The truth is…
No one ever sent a man like that unless they wanted a message carved in bone."
CUT TO: INT. DETECTIVE MORROW'S OFFICE – NIGHT
He lights another cigarette.
His hands shake.
MORROW
"You know what really scares me?"
(pause)
"...That we never heard him speak. Not once.
Just silence, smoke, and death."
He stares at the bulletin board.
Dozens of crime scene photos from different decades.
In every third or fourth frame: a glimpse of a black mask.
CUT TO BLACK
TEXT ON SCREEN:
Greyhaven Police closed the Mirage case in 1989.
Official cause: "Gang retaliation."
Unofficially? It was the night the city first whispered his name.
REAPER.
GREYHAVEN MOTEL, 1987
The door creaked open like an old confession.
A room with no owner. No warmth. Just chipped paint and yellowed walls soaked in cigarette ghosts.
Reaper stood in the doorway—silent, blood drying on his gloves, the silver suitcase in one hand like a tombstone.
He stepped inside.
Dropped it onto the stained carpet with a heavy thud.
The MAC-10 followed, clattering against the wood like a dead instrument.
No words. No breath.
He crossed the room like a man moving through the echo of his own shadow.
One step. Two.
He stopped at the mirror.
INT. BATHROOM – CONTINUOUS
The light buzzed overhead—flickering, sick yellow.
The mirror was cracked.
A fractured version of himself stared back—drained, hollow, faceless beneath everything but fatigue.
He removed the owl mask slowly.
Laid it beside the sink like a relic.
Then peeled off his coat, revealing the wound on his arm—shallow, but burning.
He turned on the faucet.
It coughed out rust-tinged water, cold as bone.
He washed his face.
Blood, grime, sweat. It ran down the drain like ink bleeding from a story not yet told.
Then—
KNOCK.
He froze.
One knock.
KNOCK. KNOCK.
Three in total.
Not frantic. Not soft. Just steady. Like punctuation after a kill.
Reaper raised his head.
The mirror didn't show fear.
Only silence.
And a question behind the eyes.
He reached for the towel.
FADE TO BLACK.