ACT I — "I Can See the Future"
EXT. GREYHAVEN OUTSKIRTS – PRE-DAWN
The road stretched like a scar across the dying landscape.
Cracked blacktop weaved through ghost fields and telephone poles long stripped of purpose. Fences hung limp, eaten by rust. The sky above was a steel sheet bruised with gray, heavy with the promise of more rain.
Reaper drove in silence.
One hand gripped the wheel. The other hovered near the passenger seat—fingers brushing against cold metal.
His MAC-10 lay still.
The dark owl mask beside it, lifeless and watching. A silent passenger. A second face waiting to be worn.
Raindrops gathered and crawled across the windshield like nervous thoughts.
Mist wove through the beams of his headlights, soft and shapeless, like the breath of something watching from beyond the trees.
His jaw clenched.
Not from pain.
But from the absence of anything else to feel.
Then—CLICK.
The radio hissed to life. Static gave way to a low, haunting bassline.
Travis Scott's voice bled through the speakers like a prayer wrapped in barbed wire:
"Used to wanna be rich, then it finally happened…"
Telekinesis.
Not a song. A sermon.
Not a celebration. A reckoning.
It filled the space where blood had dried and sleep no longer visited.
Reaper didn't hum along.
But he listened.
"Streets stepped in and raised me, but I ain't have my daddy…"
His knuckles flexed on the wheel.
A pulse beat through his chest—slow and steady.
Not grief.
Not anger.
Just gravity.
The weight of a life rebuilt from bullet casings and empty hallways.
EXT. RUSTED HIGHWAY BRIDGE – MOMENTS LATER
The bridge appeared out of the mist like a ribcage of old iron.
It loomed over a slow-moving river below—black water twisting like oil, cold and endless. Steel beams arched above, bent with age, humming faintly as if remembering the weight of all who had crossed.
Reaper's tires rolled onto the metal grating.
The car vibrated softly.
He didn't blink.
Didn't slow.
Only the music lingered.
"I can see the future, it's lookin' like we leveled through the sky…"
Reaper didn't believe in futures.
Not anymore.
He wasn't sure what the word even meant—hope, maybe. Or something people told themselves before they disappeared.
But for one brief breath—
The music believed for him.
And that was enough.
INT. CAR – CONTINUOUS
The road narrowed again. The fog thickened, swallowing the rearview mirror in layers of gray. Greyhaven faded behind him like an old photograph curling in fire.
Ahead, a weather-worn sign broke through the mist:
EDGEVIEW HEIGHTS – 3 MILES
He exhaled. Slow. Measured.
His coat was damp with blood. The bandages beneath pulled tight across stitched skin. But pain had become background noise. Another station he didn't bother tuning out.
The MAC-10 rested quiet. The owl mask sat beside it, reflecting dim neon from the dashboard. Both relics of the last war.
And signals of the next.
Reaper reached to the dial. Turned the volume down—not off. Just low enough to let the beat breathe under the silence.
"Won't you take the wheel? And I recline and I sit still…"
But he didn't recline.
He leaned forward, elbows tense.
Eyes locked on the road ahead.
Because the Reaper never sat still.
EXT. RURAL BACKROAD – CONTINUOUS
The trees rose taller here. Skeletal. Watching.
A soft fog dragged across the asphalt like a shroud.
In the rearview mirror, Reaper glimpsed himself for just a second—
Pale. Cold. Hollow-eyed.
A man carved in silence.
Behind him, the world slowed.
Greyhaven dissolved.
And the bridge disappeared behind shadows.
Only the road remained.
Only the next breath.
The next body.
The next name.
FADE OUT.
ACT II — NEW HOUSE, OLD GHOSTS
EXT. EDGEVIEW HEIGHTS – DAWN
A suburban cul-de-sac swallowed by breathless fog. Manicured lawns trimmed like ceremonial altars. Pastel-painted homes aligned in perfect formation—rows of quiet mouths pretending not to scream. The kind of place that sold silence by the square foot.
And then came the anomaly.
Reaper's car crept through the mist like a hearse, engine purring with low growl. The wipers smeared cold rain across the windshield. A forgotten newspaper peeled itself off the pavement. Windows blinked open. Eyes behind curtains. Whispers beneath breath.
He parked without urgency. In front of him stood a two-story house—pale siding, shuttered windows like closed eyelids. No number on the mailbox. Just a black rectangle.
A red X had marked this place on a crumpled map. A target. A tomb.
Reaper sat still for a beat.
One hand on the steering wheel. The other resting near the MAC-10. The dark owl mask lay on the passenger seat, as if watching him, daring him to open the door.
He did.
INT. HOUSE – FRONT HALL – MOMENTS LATER
The door creaked open with the slow reverence of confession.
Reaper stepped inside. His boots whispered against old wood. The air—cold, unmoving—tasted like memory. Like something that had already died here but didn't know it yet.
No dust. No mold. But a presence.
Not lived-in. Not abandoned.
Prepared.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Locked.
He moved through the entrance hallway with a quiet gravity. The furniture was arranged like stage props. The lighting dimmed with deliberate intent.
Everything was too ready. Too perfect.
As if someone—or something—had been expecting him.
INT. LIVING ROOM – CONTINUOUS
He entered the living room.
A faded couch. An old CRT television already humming.
On-screen, Nicholson's wild eyes broke through the splintered wood, teeth bared in a mockery of joy.
"HERE'S JOHNNY!"
Reaper didn't react. He just dropped his coat on the armrest, sat on the edge of the couch, and stared. The MAC-10 rested beside him like a sleeping animal.
In front of him sat the silver suitcase.
He opened it.
Two guns inside. Carefully laid like offerings.
A heavy revolver—steel, brutal, honest.
A silenced pistol—sleek, precise, whisper-dead.
A few magazines. Fewer answers.
He stared, but didn't reach.
Not yet.
His stomach growled—sudden and human. The wound from the Mirage job still throbbed beneath the gauze, but hunger cut deeper.
INT. KITCHEN – MOMENTS LATER
He found the kitchen sterile but stocked.
Opened the freezer. Pulled out a container of fried chicken. Cold but edible. He devoured it at the counter—animal, not assassin.
Afterward, something caught his eye.
A rotary phone on the wall.
Old. Yellowed. Out of place.
He lifted the receiver.
Nothing.
Dead line.
Dead silence.
INT. UPSTAIRS HALLWAY – MOMENTS LATER
Reaper explored the upper floor like a ghost revisiting the place it died in. Each step drawn slow across the creaking boards. Each door ajar, like it knew it would be opened again.
Bedroom. Study. Bathroom.
All untouched.
All curated.
He paused at the hallway mirror.
Stared.
His own reflection stared back—distorted by the lighting, older than he remembered. Not tired. Weathered. The kind of face that had buried too much.
He touched the owl mask slung from his belt.
FLASH.
A child's scream.
Distant. Echoed.
Not real.
Or maybe too real.
The mirror rippled. Or cracked.
He couldn't tell.
His hand shot to his head, pain like a nail between thoughts. He staggered. Caught the wall.
The silence wasn't empty. It was waiting.
INT. BEDROOM – MOMENTS LATER
The door swung open.
A bed. Fresh clothes folded with impossible neatness. Jeans. Shirt. Undergarments. A black box beside the stack.
He sat down. Opened it.
Inside: a photograph.
Old. Blurred. A man in a dark suit holding a child. Faces smudged by age or intention. But the scar on the man's jaw…
Reaper blinked.
Pain bloomed behind his eyes. A throb in his temple. He set the photo down like it was glass.
What the fuck are you remembering?
INT. KITCHEN – LATER
Reaper now clean, dressed in the clothes left for him. He stood by the back window. Watching the backyard. A rusted swing swayed gently in still air. Flowers wilted in the shadow of a broken fence.
He lit a cigarette but didn't smoke it.
Just held it.
Watched the ember burn down like a slow countdown.
And then—
CREAK.
A soft sound upstairs.
Not wind. Not imagination.
Reaper turned to face it. Calm. Composed.
The cigarette still in hand.
But his eyes—sharp now.
The house wasn't haunted.
He was.
And the walls could feel it.
Act III — "PHANTOM VISITATION"
INT. EDGEVIEW HEIGHTS HOUSE — LIVING ROOM — NIGHT
Silence moved through the house like smoke from an old fire. A ticking clock—one Reaper had never noticed before—tapped softly, threading itself between layers of static and fractured thought.
Reaper sat hunched on the living room sofa, the CRT television flickering before him in a dull haze of channel surfing. Each station bled into the next like a dream slowly forgetting itself. The dark owl mask sat beside him on the couch—watching.
Then—
RING.
The rotary phone on the wall buzzed to life with a mechanical, almost bone-like rattle.
Reaper didn't flinch. He stood and walked toward it slowly, the same way a man might approach a ghost he'd been waiting for. His hand reached out, curled around the receiver, and lifted it.
VOICE (O.S.)
(Smooth. Composed.)
"Reaper, I think you've rested long enough."
A pause.
"There's movement downtown. One of the original architects is resurfacing. Your window opens in three days."
(beat)
"But this time… you're not going alone."
CLICK.
Dead tone.
Reaper stared at the wall like it might open and speak to him, like the drywall held secrets and meanings he couldn't yet reach.
INT. EDGEVIEW HEIGHTS — NIGHT
Outside, the air was thick with mist and gasoline. Then—
A faint growl.
Headlights slashed through the fog like blades. A motorbike cut through the cul-de-sac, all curves and menace, sleek and low like something forged from ash and teeth. Blood-red taillights gleamed as it hissed to a stop in front of the house.
Reaper rose, slipped the owl mask over his face, and walked to the window.
Engine off. Silence.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
Three knocks. Not hesitant. Not polite. Just precise.
Before Reaper could reach the door—
It opened.
INT. HOUSE — MOMENTS LATER
Boots stepped in first. Then dark maroon jeans with a smoke-purple fade. A sharp leather jacket, unzipped just enough to reveal worn metal beneath.
He never took off the helmet.
Matte black. Chrome visor. Scratched and streaked from lives lived too close to the fire.
His presence was heat under a closed lid—pressurized, electric.
A katana hugged his spine. A low-slung silver handgun rode at his hip.
The stranger stopped, glanced at Reaper.
PHANTOM
(Grinning beneath the visor)
"Name's Phantom."
He strode past like the house owed him money.
PHANTOM (CONT'D)
"Expected blood. Maybe a corpse. But you? Just sulking in here like some noir widow."
Reaper said nothing.
Phantom tossed his jacket onto the counter. No invitation. No apology. He picked up Reaper's untouched cigarettes, sniffed one.
PHANTOM
"Classy. Still mute, ghost-boy?"
Reaper nodded once. No surprise.
Phantom tilted his head.
PHANTOM
"Y'know that's rude, right? I pour my heart into top-tier banter, and you just glare."
Reaper stepped to a drawer, pulled out a notepad and pen. Scribbled.
REAPER (written):
You talk enough for both of us.
Phantom laughed. Short. Dry.
PHANTOM
"Shit. That's fair."
He dropped onto the couch's armrest, boots landing on the coffee table with a thunk.
PHANTOM
"We're partnered up. Three days from now. Big name. Heavy security. Political stink all over it. Probably got lasers in the toilet."
(beat)
"I'll handle the noise. You do your silent-killer stare thing. Or we improvise. I'm good either way."
Reaper wrote something else. Held it up.
REAPER (written):
Do you need the katana and gun just to talk to me?
Phantom snorted, then wheezed into laughter.
PHANTOM
"Oh these? Just in case. Never know when I'm walking into enemy territory."
His laughter softened, a hand absently touching his helmet. He lowered his gaze. Not embarrassed—just quieter.
From his jacket, Phantom pulled a sleek black card. Raised red lettering:
PHANTOM'S WRECK YARD
Cars. Bikes. Armor. Modifications.
No questions. No refunds.
He tossed it onto the table.
PHANTOM
"If you wanna tune up that tin can you drive or just grab a drink, swing by. There's a bar under the lift. Neon trash. Feels like home."
He stood. The energy shifted—cool again. Task complete.
PHANTOM
"See you in three days, Reaper."
(beat)
"Try not to die before then."
Phantom walked out. Heavy boots. The door clicked shut behind him like punctuation.
Reaper watched the door for a long second.
Why does everyone keep leaving cards like it's a damn business convention?
He didn't smile. But the thought hovered.
INT. BEDROOM — LATER
The house exhaled. Stillness returned.
Reaper stood in his doorway. Mask off. Hair damp. Muscles tired.
He placed Phantom's card beside the photo.
That photo.
The man and the child.
He didn't look at it. Not tonight.
He lay down, spine sinking into the mattress like he hadn't slept in years.
Eyes closed.
But the war inside didn't.
FADE TO BLACK.