ACT I — GHOST CIRCUITS
The sound came first.
A woman's scream—warped and distant—echoed like a haunted lullaby played through a cracked cassette. Then came the chaos. Doors being kicked in. Shattered glass slicing through silence. Gunfire—a staccato rhythm of death. And through it all, a voice called out his name.
Not Reaper.
His real name. The one buried beneath steel and blood. But the dream wouldn't let him hear it clearly—just the sharp intake of breath before the sound cut like a severed wire.
He woke with a jolt, breath heavy but face expressionless. His body didn't flinch—but the sweat soaked into his skin told the story. The room was quiet now, draped in the bluish hue of morning. The shadows of the past hadn't left… they just settled in like dust. This house—this coffin of memories—stared back at him with walls too familiar.
Reaper sat up, silent and controlled, breathing as if to push ghosts back into the dark corners of his mind.
The nightstand beside him held two objects: a business card and a photo.
He reached for the card first.
PHANTOM'S WRECK YARD
Cars. Bikes. Armor. Modifications.
No questions. No refunds.
He turned it over.
In faded red ink:
The Rustyard, East Grayhaven
Enter through the graffiti gate. Don't knock.
Reaper stared at it for a long beat.
The nearby alarm clock read 6:20 AM.
His eyes dropped to the silver case half-hidden under the bed. He reached for it, dragging the weight up like a coffin lid creaking open. Inside: his tools of silence. The revolver still snug in its holster. A suppressed pistol gleaming like a whisper of death. He checked the mag. Loaded. Efficient. Familiar.
He laid them both on the bed and stood.
The old wooden floor groaned beneath his steps as he moved through the quiet house. Into the bathroom. He stripped, stepped beneath the cold shower, and let the water crash over him like penance. For a moment, he didn't move. Just stood there—statue-still, head tilted up, letting the chill remind him he was still alive.
When he emerged, he was dripping and silent. He dried off quickly, dressing with precision: black shirt. Dark grey jacket. Heavy boots. Black gloves.
The revolver slid into the holster behind his back. The pistol tucked into his coat. The photo went into an inside pocket. The card too.
He walked the hallway slowly, passing the mirror again—the one that had rattled his bones the night before. Today it didn't shake. But his reflection did. He stared into it.
Not a man. Not a ghost.
Something in between.
A fire simmered behind his eyes. Controlled. Focused.
He moved past it.
At the living room dresser, he grabbed the notepad and pen. Slid them into his coat like weapons. Then came the small roll of cash. And two gold coins—tucked into his pocket with a soft clink, the subtle currency of those who moved beneath Grayhaven's surface.
Then he dropped to the floor.
Push-ups. Squats. Slow, deliberate strikes. Not for strength. For memory. For rhythm. For survival. His breath synced with movement—no wasted energy, no emotion.
Outside, the sun began to peel itself over the horizon. Edgeview Heights lit up like a dead city waking for one more show. A forgotten suburb, glowing from rot.
He stood.
On the wall hung the mask—the dark owl.
He stared at it.
It stared back.
He didn't wear it.
Not yet.
Cut to black.
FADE IN:
Reaper behind the wheel of his car, heading east.
Grayhaven passed by like a fever dream—neon and rust, stray dogs chasing smoke, eyes behind cracked blinds. Flickering signs advertised pawn shops, abandoned diners, and sins that didn't come with receipts.
The radio crackled.
Soft synths spilled out, haunting and romantic.
"After Hours" by The Weeknd played.
He passed shuttered stores, a woman dancing alone on a rooftop in silhouette, and men smoking beneath broken streetlamps like they were waiting for the end of the world.
Grayhaven wasn't fully awake.
But it was watching.
Watching him.
Watching what he might become.
ACT II: "The Time Between"
The engine purred like a sleeping beast beneath Reaper's hand — steady, low, dangerous. He guided the car through the waking sprawl of Grayhaven, where even the sunlight looked guilty. The city wore its scars with pride — smeared windows, rust-bitten streetlamps, alleys steeped in memories no one dared reclaim.
He drove east.
Past the soft-edged rot of Edgeview Heights, where curated lawns and tight smiles pretended the world was still safe. Out where the city exhaled its secrets and forgot to look back.
The terrain changed.
Concrete buckled like broken promises. Billboards loomed like half-remembered nightmares. One of them read:
TRUST THE CITY. BREATHE SAFETY. GRAYHAVEN CARES.
Someone had spray-painted devil horns on the mayor's face and slashed a crimson LIAR across his smile.
Down here, Grayhaven didn't care who you were — just what you could bleed or barter.
Neon signs flickered like dying stars. Masked graffiti — wolves, angels, snakes with rifles — painted rebellion on crumbling brick. Burnt-out bars leaned against strip clubs like drunks sharing old war stories. Smoke slithered from sewer grates. The sky, gray and bruised, felt like a lid waiting to shut.
The Rustyard.
Where machines came to die — and some men too.
Inside the car, the radio sparked to life — hissing, catching static, then the voice cut through like silk soaked in sorrow.
"I let you down, I let you go…"
The Weeknd's "After Hours" crept through the cabin, melancholic and narcotic. A hymn for broken hearts and late-night vendettas.
Reaper didn't blink. His mind drifted, but his hands remained precise — guiding the wheel like a blade. Then he caught it in the corner of his eye — his left wrist.
Bare.
He frowned. A moment. A thread unraveled.
He pulled the car to the curb, right between a shuttered pawn shop and the sagging neon lips of a defunct sex club. There, nestled between the ruin, was a strange little shop with a single flickering sign overhead:
VINCENT'S — Time is a Lie, but at least it Ticks.
He shut off the engine. The city sighed.
Reaper stepped out, boots crunching glass and ash. He paused beneath the sign, scanning the windows. No threats. Just shadows and ticking.
A bell above the door gave a tired jingle as he entered.
Warm air, tinged with oil and leather, pressed close like an old memory. The shop was a cocoon of clocks — grandfather, digital, analog, pocket, wall-mounted, buried in shelves and hanging from ceiling hooks. Every surface ticked, hummed, or clicked — like a hundred tiny hearts beating out of sync.
And there, behind a glass counter, sat a slender figure hunched over a disassembled wristwatch.
They looked up — soft brown eyes ringed with smudged eyeliner. Pale skin. Platinum-blond hair clipped back in a careless ponytail. Black tank top, slim wrists, a faint chain at the collarbone. Their movements were precise, almost feline.
They smiled.
"Hey there, stranger," they said, voice playful but worn at the edges. "You're either stylishly late… or in the market for something more permanent."
Reaper tilted his head — a silent greeting, cautious but not cold.
Then he reached into his coat. The revolver stayed hidden. What he drew instead was a small, worn notepad and a black pen. He scribbled quickly and turned the pad toward the clerk:
Looking for a watch.
Simple. Durable. Quiet.
They raised a brow and slid out from behind the counter with practiced ease.
"Mute?" they asked. "Or just too cool to speak?"
Reaper smirked faintly. Wrote again.
Mute.
You talk enough for both of us.
They laughed. A real laugh — not the hollow kind Grayhaven usually coughed up. "You're not wrong. I'm Vincent. And before you ask — yeah, I get it a lot."
Reaper's gaze lingered. There was something unreadable in their presence — like a mirror that refused to show your face. Then he jotted again.
Thought you were a girl at first.
Vincent grinned. "I get that a lot too."
They turned, unlocked a glass case, and carefully pulled out a sleek, black wristwatch. The kind that didn't tick loudly — it breathed.
"Military quartz. Reinforced glass. Water-resistant. And quiet enough to sneak past time itself."
Reaper held it, studied the weight. Practical. Sharp. Honest.
Perfect.
Vincent watched him turn the timepiece over, their smile fading just enough to seem real. "Payment?"
Reaper reached into his coat once more. This time, he didn't pull a pen.
Two gold coins landed softly on the counter — warm and heavy, gleaming like blood caught in candlelight.
Vincent paused. Their fingers brushed the coins gently.
"…You've been places," they said.
Reaper wrote:
We all have.
Vincent nodded, sliding the watch into a black leather pouch. "Come back anytime. Even if it's just to hide from the world."
Reaper paused at the door. Then turned, scribbled one last note, and handed it to Vincent.
You're good at reading people.
Stay alive.
Vincent read it. Looked up.
But the door had already chimed.
And Reaper was gone.
Outside, Grayhaven's voice returned — low and growling. Reaper climbed back into the car, slid the watch onto his wrist. It ticked like a heartbeat muffled under water.
The city blurred by again — rusted cranes, shattered glass towers, bridges webbed with graffiti. A kid in a wolf mask spray-painted an angel holding a machine gun on the underpass.
Then the gate appeared.
Steel, scorched and tagged with crimson skulls and twisted wrenches. A sign above it, scrawled like a war cry:
PHANTOM'S WRECK YARD.
The place looked like a junkyard crashed into a war museum. Burned-out muscle cars. Bikes stripped and reborn with metal jaws. A sedan with a turret welded onto its roof. Wreckage stacked like bones.
The gate groaned. Chains rattled.
It opened… slowly… as if the place had been expecting him.
Reaper stared through the rising smoke and muttered in his head, dry and grim:
"Yeah… this motherfucker and his playground."
The war dogs were about to reunite.
And something was waiting to be lit on fire.
CUT TO BLACK.
ACT III — "WAR DOGS AND WRENCHES"
The garage breathed like a sleeping animal — slow, heavy, dangerous.
Buried in the Rustyard's industrial corpse, PHANTOM'S WRECK YARD lay nestled behind derelict shipping crates and skeletons of bombed-out war machines. Here, the world didn't hum — it growled. Spotlights buzzed and flickered overhead, their glow painting steel beams and half-dissected muscle cars in shades of rust and blood.
The scent of burnt oil and metal hung thick in the air, like the aftertaste of violence.
A wrench clanked against a stripped-down frame — the gutted body of a Dodge Challenger, its skin peeled back to reveal red muscle and rage. Phantom worked like a man possessed: helmet still on, sleeves rolled up, sparks flying from the welding torch in his hand. A katana rested on his back like a holy relic. He wasn't fixing a car.
He was building a coffin with wheels.
Then—
the main gate groaned.
Chains rattled.
Smoke drifted in like a ghost's breath.
And with it—Reaper.
He emerged through the haze, masked and silent, coat dusted from the street. One hand tucked inside his coat. The other clutched a black duffel. He walked like a memory that refused to die — soft-footed, but with the weight of a thousand kills in every step.
Phantom didn't look up.
"Unexpected visitor in my jungle," he muttered.
Reaper didn't respond. The door slammed shut behind him like a prison seal.
A beat of stillness. Then Reaper pulled out his notepad, scratched a line in ink.
Working on a car… with your helmet still on? How the fuck do you see?
Phantom let out a low, guttural chuckle.
"Same way you shoot with that owl-face on, brother. Muscle memory."
He stood, tossing the wrench with a clang, grease slick across his gloves.
"Besides… maybe I like the world a little blurry."
Reaper flipped the page.
You look like a rejected Power Ranger.
Phantom laughed, rough and raw. "Yeah? And you look like a cultist who shops at Goodwill."
Silence.
Then — a shared moment of deadpan stillness.
Two men. Two masks. One strange, mirrored reflection.
Phantom finally waved a hand toward the back door.
"C'mon. Let's get a drink. I got something to show you."
THE CRACKED GEAR — Phantom's Underground Bar
Behind a reinforced vault door — hidden beneath steel beams and repurposed tanks — was Phantom's personal sanctuary: The Cracked Gear. A speakeasy carved out of an old munitions storeroom.
Neon light bled down the walls like fever.
Shotguns and vintage whiskey bottles lined the shelves like sacred icons.
A jukebox croaked out low, gritty blues beneath the thrum of humming generators.
Music bled from the walls. Metro Boomin. Don Toliver.
"Around me."
The sound was haunting, soaked in molasses and sorrow.
They sat across from each other in a booth under a busted lightbulb, both still masked. Neither willing to unmask. Not here. Not yet.
Reaper reached inside his coat and produced a flask. Set it down. Quiet.
Phantom raised a brow behind the visor.
"Oh, we're drinking-drinking now?"
Reaper slid it across.
Phantom unscrewed the top and took a swig. Tilted his head back.
He coughed once, hard.
"Jesus. Tastes like gasoline... and old heartbreak."
Then he noticed it — the watch wrapped tight around Reaper's wrist. A sleek design, too elegant for a street gunman.
He pointed with his glass.
"New toy?"
Reaper wrote:
Compliments of Vincent.
Phantom blinked. Then smirked.
"…Wait. That Vincent? Watch-shop twink Vincent?"
A slow nod from Reaper.
Phantom laughed so hard his helmet tapped the booth wall.
"Goddamn. You've got a type."
Reaper didn't deny it. But the corner of his mouth twitched, just barely — a flicker of humanity. Phantom caught it like a sniper catches movement.
He leaned back, arms spread.
"Look at you. Laughing. Almost human."
Reaper wrote:
Almost.
THE JOB
Phantom's mood shifted.
He reached into his jacket, pulled out a worn manila folder. Slid it across the table like a poker hand soaked in gasoline.
Reaper opened it.
Inside — a photo.
A man in a designer suit. Pale, predatory eyes. A face built for secrets and lies. Behind him loomed a violet-lit skyscraper — decadent, indulgent.
A name was scrawled in ink across the top:
NIGHTJAW.
Reaper stared. Something behind his mask hardened.
Phantom's voice went low. Controlled.
"He runs the upper floors of Club Vanta. Downtown. Exclusive. Vile. Underground auctions, designer drugs, human smuggling rings wrapped in velvet and champagne. He's the real thing."
Reaper didn't flinch. But he leaned in, the mask unreadable.
"And word is," Phantom continued, "he's ex-agency. Like you. Ghost file. Erased history. Might even be part of the crew that—"
He didn't finish. He didn't have to.
Reaper's grip tightened on the photo.
He wrote:
Alive?
Phantom shook his head.
"No. Orders say dead. Fast and loud. But the tech he's sitting on — drives, records, files — that needs to come out intact."
Reaper gave a nod. Slow. Mechanical.
Understood.
A TOAST TO NOTHING
They sat for a moment in silence.
Two remnants of the same forgotten war.
They raised their glasses — mismatched, battered — and tried to drink through their masks. Phantom tilted his helmet just right. Reaper used a tiny, surgical straw, like a ghost sipping cyanide.
Phantom muttered:
"This is the dumbest, most elegant shit I've ever done."
Reaper clinked his glass against Phantom's.
To the dumb and deadly.
Then — the world shifted.
Glass cracked.
A low hiss rolled through the room.
A smoke canister burst open in the corner, spewing gray into the lights.
THE ATTACK
Reaper moved first.
He kicked the table over, dropped low. Phantom ducked beneath cover just as a bullet shattered the bottle above his head.
Red visors appeared in the fog — lean, tactical figures with suppressed SMGs and zero hesitation.
One barked:
"TARGET SIGHTED — REAPER MUST BE TAKEN ALIVE."
Phantom snarled:
"Fuck that."
He rolled, grabbed his shotgun, and blew the first bastard's chest apart — BOOM! — sending blood across the neon bar.
Reaper was already in motion — revolver raised, precision incarnate.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Knee. Throat. Skull.
Each shot was a signature.
The jukebox shorted out. Fire caught on spilled liquor.
The bar became a warzone in slow motion.
Glass fell like rain.
Shells clinked like church bells.
Phantom unsheathed his katana and carved a figure in half — clean as poetry.
Back to back, the war dogs fought.
Steel on flesh. Smoke on fire. Blood on everything.
They didn't speak.
They didn't need to.
They were past words now.
They were fury in motion — two ghosts of the old world, breaking bones in the new.
FADE TO BLACK
Outside, a storm was building — thunder rolling somewhere far above the skyline.
Inside Phantom's lair, fire licked the walls. Ash danced with sparks.
Two men.
No names.
No past.
Only the sound of breathing through masks.
Together again.
And someone, somewhere — in a place far darker — was watching.
Waiting.
Pulling strings in the dark.