ACT I — THE CAT AND THE REAPER
The door still whispered echoes from the knocks.
Three of them. Measured. Familiar.
Reaper stood in the center of the dim motel room, lit only by the hum of a dying lamp. His breathing was low. Controlled. But not calm. He moved slowly—each step heavy from blood loss and the weight of the silence that followed the Mirage hit.
The MAC-10 scraped faintly as he picked it up from the floor. Safety, not threat. Habit, not fear.
He stepped toward the door like a soldier through fog. He couldn't guess what was waiting on the other side—another enemy, another voice, another ghost. But that knock... there was something in it. Not warning. Not malice.
Almost… playfulness.
He unlocked the door and cracked it open—weapon raised.
On the other side stood a woman.
She didn't flinch at the barrel aimed her way. In fact, she barely moved. She just stared through the open frame with tilted curiosity.
A sleek black cat mask clung to her face—matte, sharp, featureless except for two pointed ears that curved upward like small horns. Beneath it, her lips—black, painted with care—curved faintly, somewhere between amusement and knowing relief.
The hallway behind her flickered under a dying fluorescent light, casting her in a stuttering rhythm of shadow and light. She looked young—mid-twenties, maybe. Athletic frame wrapped in a long black coat, leather gloves, and worn combat boots.
She looked at him the way a cat looks at a door it already owns.
Then she spoke, soft but sharp.
"Took you long enough. Thought I'd have to send you a reminder bark. You really might've worn a dog mask better."
Reaper said nothing.
His gun lowered slowly. Not because he trusted her—but because there was something undeniable in her presence. Like gravity. Or déjà vu.
She stepped past him without asking, brushing the edge of his coat with a soft whisper of movement.
"Name's Black Cat," she said over her shoulder. "Or just... Cat. You can call me that, cutie."
She didn't look back as she wandered through the room like it was hers to begin with.
Reaper watched in silence, still processing. Still bleeding.
She turned, took him in fully, eyes catching the red on his sleeve.
"You're hurt," she said flatly. "Let me see it."
Reaper tilted his head, hesitant.
"Don't make me drag you," she sighed. "You're not as mysterious as they made you sound. Bit puppy-eyed, even."
She approached him—slow, confident—and gently inspected his arm. Her gloved fingers moved with surgical familiarity.
"Bleeding's worse than you think. You got a medkit, ghost boy?"
He raised a finger, pointing to the bathroom.
"Good. Sit," she said, nodding toward the ragged sofa.
When he didn't move, she raised a hand—long fingers ending in sleek black nails—and made a mock scratch motion in the air.
"C'mon. Don't make me hiss. Sit still, don't die, I'll handle the rest."
Reaper obeyed. Something in her tone made it easier.
She disappeared into the bathroom and returned moments later with the battered first aid case. She dropped to one knee beside the couch and went to work—unrolling gauze, unscrewing antiseptic, sterilizing the wound with a care that felt almost out of place in this blood-soaked world.
She stitched him quietly, with no wasted motion. He never asked. She never explained.
"They said the hit went clean," she said eventually, dabbing the stitched skin. "Cleaner than anyone expected. That's rare."
When she finished, she stood and peeled off her gloves, tossing them into the trash.
Then, from her coat, she pulled a small velvet pouch of gold coins—the currency of their world—and a thick stack of neatly bound cash.
"Payment. You earned it."
She held it out.
Reaper didn't take it. Instead, his hand rose—gently, but firmly—and gripped her wrist.
Their eyes met.
Behind his dark owl mask, silence.
Behind her black cat mask, a flicker of something warmer.
She smirked.
"You like looking at me. It's cute. But take the coin first, Romeo."
He released her wrist. Took the pouch.
Still silent.
Still thinking.
She studied him again—longer this time. Like she was searching for a flicker of who he was beneath the mask.
"You've got questions. That's good. Means there's still something human left inside you."
She walked over to the silver suitcase, lifted it with both hands, and headed for the door.
She paused there. One hand on the knob. Her back to him.
"Rest while you can," she said softly. "They won't be so gentle next time."
She reached into her coat once more and tossed something onto the table beside him.
A card.
Embossed in black.
The only thing printed on it:
707-404-0666
"If something goes wrong... call this number. Say nothing. They'll come."
She opened the door.
And then, almost as an afterthought—
"Try not to die, Reaper. Would be a shame."
She left.
The door clicked shut behind her like the end of a lullaby.
Reaper sat alone again, staring at the card.
Then, slowly, his eyes closed.
And the room fell back into silence.
ACT II — "WOLF IN THE WALLS"
INT. GREYHAVEN MOTEL – NIGHT
Silence creeps back into the room like smoke.
The door clicks shut behind Black Cat, her scent still lingering—clean and dangerous. Like perfume mixed with cordite. Something primal hums in the walls.
Reaper sits still on the edge of the stained motel sofa. His bandages fresh, his body sore. The silver suitcase is gone. In its place: a velvet pouch of coins and a neat stack of cash—payment for a sin perfectly executed.
Outside, neon light pulses faintly through half-drawn curtains.
A slow breath rises from Reaper's chest—
THUD.
From the ceiling.
He stills. Head tilts.
The pipe overhead groans. A dull clatter. Then—
POP.
The overhead light bulb shatters, raining glass like frozen rain. The room dips into a sick yellow glow and silence thickens like molasses.
He's not alone.
Reaper rises, every movement precise. Tension coils in his muscles like wire.
He doesn't go to the door.
He moves instead—silent and barefoot—into the bathroom, picks up the dark owl mask from the cracked sink. His reflection fractured. Lost.
The mask slides on—ritualistic.
And with it, he's no longer just a man.
He becomes Reaper again.
MAC-10 in hand, breath steady, he pads across the floor toward the door.
And then—
CRACK.
A single bullet pierces the door, quiet and clean. A silenced shot. The wall beside his head erupts in splinters.
Reaper doesn't flinch.
He presses himself to the wall, breathing slow. Listening.
The doorknob turns.
The door creaks open an inch… then another. A shadow steps in.
Boots. A coat. A mask.
WOLF.
Bone-colored, sleek. Scar running down the snout. Eyes glow faint red, artificial and wrong—like a dying security system.
Reaper raises the MAC-10—
Too late.
The Wolf lunges, the door kicked wide. Gunshots explode in muffled bursts as Reaper dives behind the overturned dresser.
No words. No threats. Just pure, precise violence.
This isn't a warning.
This isn't revenge.
This is an execution.
Gunfire ignites the room.
Reaper sprints across the narrow space, boots thudding over broken glass, leaping behind a half-crushed cabinet. Bullets punch into wood, tearing into wallpaper and plaster like the motel itself is being skinned.
The MAC-10 answers in a furious staccato.
The Wolf moves like he's on rails—bouncing from wall to ceiling to floor. Quick. Unnatural. A blur of black coat and blood hunger.
Reaper clips him in the shoulder—blood sprays. The Wolf snarls but doesn't stop. Closes distance.
They crash together, bodies hitting furniture, walls. Fists and gunmetal. Elbow strikes. Knee kicks. Reaper slams him into the wall—glass shatters. The Wolf slashes with a blade pulled from his boot.
Sparks. Blood. Bone.
Reaper snatches a shard of mirror from the floor—slashes the Wolf across the chest. The attacker hisses, stumbles—
Reaper capitalizes.
A brutal toss—the Wolf is flipped over the coffee table, crashing hard. It splinters under him.
Reaper moves in. No hesitation.
Mounts him.
Drives his elbow—once. Twice. Three times—into the Wolf's throat. The masked man gurgles, body spasming.
Then still.
Breathing ragged, Reaper rises slowly. Eyes never leaving the motionless figure.
The Wolf lies there—alive, barely. His mask is cracked. Blood seeps through the snout.
Reaper raises his MAC-10.
A pause.
His finger hovers.
But he doesn't shoot.
He just stares into that broken, twitching mask… as if waiting for it to speak first.
It never does.
Instead, Reaper lowers the weapon. Calm. Controlled. He turns away like it's business, not personal.
He walks over to the desk.
Rotary phone. Dusty, blood-smeared.
He dials the number Black Cat gave him.
707-404-0666
RING...
RING...
CLICK.
VOICE (O.S.)
(calm, female)
"Cleaning or disposal?"
Reaper doesn't say a word.
Just watches the Wolf's body rise and fall, chest barely moving.
VOICE (O.S.)
"…Understood. Stay put. Payment will be collected."
CLICK.
The line goes dead.
Reaper stands there, bathed in rainlight from the cracked window. His blood mingling with someone else's on the motel floor.
He leans back against the wall, a long, low breath escaping him.
His eyes close for a moment.
In his mind:
No peace. No rest. No reset.
Just one bitter thought:
"They don't even give me time to bleed before sending the next fucking animal."
Reaper opens his eyes again.
He looks down at the Wolf—still alive, still breathing. A mystery in a cracked mask.
Just like him.
No answers.
Only violence.
And somewhere, far away, someone watching.
Taking notes.
FADE TO BLACK.
ACT III — SERVICE CALL
INT. GREYHAVEN MOTEL – DAWN
The storm had dulled to a whisper now—just soft taps against the broken glass.
Neon bled through cracked blinds, strobing the faded wallpaper in fevered pulses. The Reaper sat motionless on the edge of the bed, blood-slick MAC-10 resting beside him like a sleeping hound, loyal and lethal.
His shoulders sagged. Fatigue whispered beneath his silence.
He stared at the fractured window. Waiting.
Then—
Tires on wet asphalt.
A black sedan rolled into the alley below. Smooth. Silent. Surgical.
Reaper rose, stepped toward the window, watching without blinking.
Three figures exited the vehicle—tall, faceless in tailored charcoal suits.
No insignias. No sound. No names.
They moved in uncanny unison, like shadows following a script written in death.
One of them turned their head slightly—just enough to feel him watching.
They didn't knock.
They never did.
INT. MOTEL ROOM – MOMENTS LATER
The door creaked open without ceremony. The cleaners entered.
Their presence didn't disturb the silence—it swallowed it whole.
One moved to the body sprawled near the sofa. The Wolf-masked attacker was still, a ruin of muscle and rage. They examined him with methodical detachment. No questions. No chatter. Just work.
Another knelt by the pool of blood and laid down a black case. Inside: bleach, tarps, solvents. Clean death.
The third stood still and extended a gloved palm toward Reaper.
But just then—
RING.
The rotary phone buzzed from the nightstand.
Reaper turned, picked it up. Held it to his ear.
The voice came through—smooth, corporate, faintly amused.
VOICE (O.S.)
"Little hiccup tonight. Wasn't supposed to reach your door."
(beat)
"But you handled it. Cleanly. Impressive. Not many could've walked away."
(silence)
"Time to relocate. That motel's burned."
(pause)
"You'll find keys and documents taped under the sink.
New location: Edgeview Heights.
Quiet street. Detached house. No number on the mailbox.
You'll like it better. A place to breathe... while you still can."
Click.
No goodbye.
There never was.
Reaper lowered the receiver. His hand lingered there for a beat.
From behind him, one of the cleaners finally spoke.
CLEANER
"Service complete. One coin."
Reaper didn't blink. He reached into the velvet pouch left by Black Cat, pulled out a single gold coin, and dropped it into the waiting hand.
Clink.
That was the language they understood.
With a final nod, the three vanished—body, blood, evidence—all gone.
As if they were never here.
Ghosts in suits.
INT. BATHROOM – CONTINUOUS
The motel groaned around him, old and dying.
Reaper stepped into the cracked-tiled bathroom.
He opened the cabinet beneath the sink.
Just like the voice said:
A set of keys, a folded paper, a hand-drawn map with a single red X over the edge of the city. Edgeview Heights.
Strange—he could've sworn these weren't here before.
But now?
Now it felt like they'd always been waiting.
He stared at them for a moment longer than he needed to. Then grabbed everything.
No questions.
No one to ask anyway.
EXT. GREYHAVEN MOTEL – MOMENTS LATER
He stood at the doorway one last time.
Fully dressed.
Dark coat. Gloves. Mask on.
The MAC-10 now strapped against his back like a ghost's spine.
He looked out over Greyhaven.
The storm had passed.
But the city still felt soaked in something sour and wrong.
The kind of quiet that came before another war.
Siren wails echoed far off—distant, but moving closer.
Reaper stepped into the hallway without hesitation.
His boots thudded softly against stained carpet.
And just like that—
He was gone again.
FADE TO BLACK.
INT. GREYHAVEN CITY POLICE ARCHIVES – 2015 – NIGHT
A flickering fluorescent bulb buzzes overhead.
Detective MORROW—now older, slower, more shadow than man—sits at his desk, surrounded by towers of paper files, old reel tapes, and fading photographs. Smoke curls from the edge of his ashtray. The room smells like dust and dying light.
He stares at a yellowed incident report labeled:
1987 – GREYHAVEN MOTEL – SHOTS FIRED / NO EVIDENCE FOUND
CASE STATUS: COLD.
On his monitor—grainy footage from 1987. No audio. Just static, timestamp blur, and muted shapes.
The outline of a man—tall, dark coat, owl mask—exiting a motel room, vanishing down a hallway.
MORROW (V.O.)
"Place burned through three owners since then.
Motel room 302.
Back then? Gunfire. Witnesses.
By the time we showed up... nothing."
CUT TO: INT. GREYHAVEN MOTEL – OFFICE (2015)
A nervous motel owner, mid-50s, chain-smoker, sits across from a young local reporter with a recorder.
MOTEL OWNER
"Yeah, I've heard the stories.
Room was cursed long before I bought the place.
People whisper about 'the man with the bird mask.'
Owl, I think. Quiet type. Some say he lived there for a week, maybe two.
No check-in, no ID. Just cash and silence."
REPORTER (O.S.)
"What happened that night?"
MOTEL OWNER
"Loud pops. Screaming. Then nothing.
By the time we went to check, room was spotless.
No blood. No bodies. Just... bleach.
Smelled like a damn morgue."
CUT TO: INT. STAIRWELL – SECURITY FOOTAGE (1987)
Black and white. Low angle.
A flickering timestamp: 1987.07.11 – 05:13AM
A single figure exits the motel.
Dark coat. Bag slung low. Owl mask catching the final blink of a dying streetlight.
He pauses. Looks at the camera.
Still.
Then walks out of frame.
BACK TO: DETECTIVE MORROW – OFFICE
Morrow stubs out his cigarette.
He looks up at a bulletin board—a timeline of decades.
1987. 1992. 1999. 2003. 2010.
Every thread tied to masked killings, every pinned photo showing the same shape—sometimes barely visible, sometimes in full shadow.
The Owl.
MORROW (V.O.)
"I've been chasing ghosts most of my life.
But that night at the Greyhaven Motel?
That wasn't a ghost."
(beat)
"That was something real. Something trained.
Something sent."
FADE TO BLACK.
TEXT ON SCREEN:
GREYHAVEN MOTEL – ROOM 302
JULY 11TH, 1987
OFFICIAL POLICE FINDING: NO EVIDENCE
UNOFFICIALLY?
THE OWL HAD FLOWN.