3 minutes earlier.
A mysterious woman leans against Dreyfus's car, staring ominously at a flickering light ahead. A run-down prostitute is being heckled by two strange men.
She takes an inhale from her vape and exhales slowly, watching.
As the prostitute gets her bag stolen, the man punches her in the face so hard her eyeball squeezes and dislocates from its socket.
The mysterious woman, unfazed, just looks onward at the scene. The prostitute screams, falling over, her eyeball dangling as the men stomp her out.
The prostitute yells for help.
The mysterious woman watches with dead eyes.
As the men notice her staring, one of them steps away from the prostitute and walks toward her.
"You are beautiful, aren't you? Not going to help your friend?" the man asks, stepping closer, now within a ten-meter radius.
'You assume she's my friend just because she's another woman?'
Weird… the mysterious woman thought to herself.
She inhales her vape again, exhaling slowly.
"Why would I help a stranger? I only care about myself. I get nothing from this."
The man steps closer.
In a single motion, she slips a perfume bottle from her pocket and sprays.
A fine mist cuts through the air, soft, almost elegant, as it reaches his face.
He smiles.
"Smells good… what is that? A preview of what I'm about to—"
His sentence collapses.
His world flips.
Once. Twice. Again and again, like his vision is being torn apart and stitched back together.
Then—
He sees God.
And immediately folds, vomiting at his own feet.
His lower jaw extends and dislocates as it hyperextends.
A wet pop.
Then it keeps going.
The hinge joint gives way, stretching far past anything human.
The skin along his cheekbone splits under the strain.
He tries to scream as his tongue folds in on itself, tearing apart from the flesh that anchors it in his mouth.
It curves directly down his throat.
The top half of his head then sinks and folds, curving in on itself.
Leaving his head bent at a ninety-degree angle, his jaw jutting out like something broken.
She just left him there—alive enough to suffer, broken enough to never recover.
"I'm not doing this for the prostitute. Neither is it for pleasure. Just self-defense. Because I only care about myself."
The other man stood frozen for half a second too long, disbelief locking his body in place.
Then instinct took over.
He turned and ran.
Behind him, she calmly unzipped her purse.
A tennis ball.
Ordinary. Green. Harmless.
She threw it full force.
It passed clean through the back of his head.
No resistance. No impact.
Almost as if it was invisible.
Then her fingers curled.
Inside his skull, the ball materialized.
With a tennis ball inside his brain, the man instantly lost consciousness and collapsed.
She exhales rapidly, tired.
"How on earth does Jeremiah use that tennis ball…?"
As Jeremiah suddenly appears behind her, on the other side of the vehicle,
Dreyfus ignores her presence and walks into the backseat by himself.
"One of you two drive."
Jeremiah sighed.
"Annie, can you drive? I'll sit back there with Drey—"
"If you willingly ignore the passenger seat and come back here, I'm going to kill you," Dreyfus mumbled.
Jeremiah:
"Sigh… whatever. You have my receiver in your purse, right, Annie?"
Annie (Anne Von Cleve) pointed to the dead body down the street with a childish attitude.
"Sorry, I've never used a great weapon before. I had to try it."
Jeremiah's face twisted in disgust as he lifted his hand.
"It's fine."
"Ball-ah, boy."
He points his finger up.
As the tennis ball dematerializes and lifts up through the dead man's head,
it flies back toward Jeremiah.
As it materializes, he catches it.
"And my receiver?" Jeremiah asked.
Anne Von Cleve rolls her eyes, reaching into her purse and tossing him the device.
He catches the small USB-looking receiver in his hand.
Then, opening his palm, it disappears.
"Like magic." Jeremiah smiles.
"Just drive."
Anne hops into the passenger seat.