Home Invasion

Archer turned to his side, staring at the suitcase that held his father's revolver. His grip tightened on the sheets.

The dim glow of the bedside lamp flickered as Archer Creed lay awake, staring at the ceiling. His mind was restless—his father's last moments in the hospital, his wife's distant eyes, his own reflection in the broken mirror. Sleep was a luxury he hadn't tasted in years.

Then, a sound. Subtle. A shift in the air.

His instincts screamed. He wasn't alone.

Without hesitation, he reached under the pillow, fingers wrapping around the cold steel of his custom-made revolver—his father's last gift. It was jammed, useless in a fight, but deadly as a bluff.

He moved cautiously. The air smelled different—smoke, sweat, something foreign. He stepped into the hallway.

A floorboard creaked.

He turned, but it was too late.

A sharp, metallic thud landed against the side of his skull. The world tilted. His vision split in two. His knees buckled. He hit the floor hard, the revolver slipping from his grasp.

Boots surrounded him. Five men, masked, hooded, like wraiths in the dark. Not random burglars. They knew him. The way they stood, the way they whispered his name.

Archer tried to rise, dizzy, disoriented, bleeding.

A boot swung into his jaw. His head snapped back, crashing onto the wooden floor.

His body refused to move. His vision blurred. He could hear them tearing through his home.

Glass shattered. Furniture toppled. Cabinets were ripped open.

"Nothing." One of them growled.

Then, a pause.

A glint of silver.

The revolver.

One of them held it up under the dim moonlight.

"Look at this... ain't this something?"

They laughed. Mocking him. His father's memory.

One of them flicked a burning cigarette onto the carpet.

The flames took their first breath.

Archer, bleeding, helpless, could only watch as the fire devoured his home.

The fire spread like a living beast, devouring everything in its path. The heat curled against Archer's skin, smoke stung his eyes, but he barely moved.

His house—his sanctuary, his past, his memories—was turning to ash before his eyes.

He tried to move, tried to stop the flames, but it was too late. The fire had already claimed its territory. The wooden walls cracked, paintings curled into blackened husks, his father's old books collapsed into embers.

From outside, he could hear the mocking voices of the men who did this.

"Mission's complete."

One of them uncapped a bottle of oil and poured it onto the porch, the liquid glistening for a moment before the flames eagerly consumed it. The blaze roared, climbing higher, turning night into hell.

They laughed as they left.

Archer stood still.

The revolver was gone. His father's last gift, stolen.

His home, his memories, everything that tied him to the past, was crumbling into fire and smoke.

A part of him died in that moment.

A silence settled inside him.

Not the silence of peace.

But the silence before the storm.

Flames flicker against the night sky, dancing shadows across the wreckage of what was once a home. The fire has lost its hunger, now reduced to glowing embers and rising smoke. The air is thick with the scent of burned wood, charred memories.

Red and blue lights paint the blackened walls. Firefighters storm in, boots crunching over debris, hoses unleashing torrents of water. The last stubborn flames hiss, drowning in the flood.

Amidst the chaos, Archer Creed stands still—a silhouette against the destruction, untouched by the world around him. His face is blank, but his eyes… they tell a different story.

A firefighter, mid-30s, face smeared with soot, approaches him cautiously.

FIREFIGHTER (panting, wiping sweat)

"What the hell happened here?"

For a moment, there is only silence.

Archer watches the embers flicker, then exhales.

ARCHER CREED (calmly, without emotion)

"I threw a cigarette."

The firefighter stares, waiting for more. Nothing comes.

With a tired sigh, he nods and turns away, walking back to his team.

The ruins of the house stand silent, broken, lifeless. Smoke drifts into the sky, fading into the morning breeze.

FADE TO GOLDEN LIGHT

The morning sun rises over the city, casting long shadows over Archer's face. His eyes, once clouded, now hold something new.

Not sadness.

Not regret.

Purpose.

He slowly clenches his fists. This isn't over.

Justice Holders' Grand Hotel – Midday

The sun blazed overhead as Archer stepped out of a taxi, his clothes still smelling of smoke and ash. His face was bruised, his forehead marked with dried blood from the ambush the night before. His eyes, however, were sharp—focused.

As he pushed open the grand doors of the Justice Holders' Club, the world inside was in stark contrast to the one outside. Dim neon lights painted the walls in deep reds and purples. Jazz hummed in the background. The scent of expensive cigars and whiskey filled the air.

Women in elegant dresses lounged on leather couches, draped over the shoulders of the city's most dangerous men—mercenaries, assassins, and crime lords. Laughter echoed through the room, but as soon as Archer walked in, silence began to spread like a slow-burning fire.

The Hunter had returned.

At the far end of the room, Dray Cassidy, a man with slicked-back silver hair and a perpetual smirk, was surrounded by three women. One was pouring him a drink, another whispering into his ear, and the third tracing a finger down his chest.

Archer didn't wait. He walked straight toward him.

Dray noticed the silence and looked up, his smirk widening.

DRAY

"Well, well, well... Look who crawled back from the grave."

He waved a hand, and the women reluctantly moved away. One of them gave Archer a long, curious glance before leaving.

ARCHER

"We need to talk."

Dray leaned back, sipping his whiskey.

DRAY

"Oh, do we? Last I remember, you were done with all this. Retired. Married. Living the peaceful life. And yet… here you are. Smelling like burnt wood and regret."

Archer remained silent. His jaw tightened.

Dray chuckled, shaking his head.

DRAY

"Alright, sit down, Hunter. Tell me—who do you want dead?"

Archer pulled up a chair, his fingers twitching.

ARCHER

"This isn't just a contract. It's personal."

Dray exhaled slowly, setting his drink down.

DRAY

"Ohhh, I see… and let me guess—the Justice Holders' rules still apply? You know what that means, right?"

Archer nodded.

DRAY

"You can kill, but you will be hunted."

A beat of silence.

Archer's voice was low.

ARCHER

"Then let them come."

Dray whistled.

DRAY

"Damn… you really are back."

He leaned forward, eyes glinting.

DRAY

"Alright… Get ready to die."

Archer didn't hesitate. He stood up, ready to move.

As he walked past the bar, a sultry voice called out from the side.

???

"Well, well… I thought I'd never see that face again."

Archer turned to see Sienna Voss, draped in a black silk dress, legs crossed, a cigarette lazily hanging between her fingers. Her emerald eyes studied him like a hunter watching prey.

SIENNA

"I heard about the fire. A shame, really." She took a drag of her cigarette. "But let's talk about the real tragedy…"

Archer remained silent.

SIENNA

"Your wife."

His breath hitched for half a second.

Sienna smirked, flicking her cigarette away.

SIENNA

"Oh, don't look at me like that, Creed. Everyone knows." She tilted her head. "And now… the real question."

She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward.

SIENNA

"Are you back?"

Silence.

ARCHER

"Something like that."

CLIFFHANGER SCENE – AMMU-NATION GUN STORE

A dimly lit Ammu-Nation shop, the air thick with the scent of gunpowder and oil. The bell jingled as a group of five hooded thugs walked in, their leader placing a custom-made revolver on the counter.

THUG LEADER

"It's jammed. Fix it."

The grizzled shopkeeper, a man with decades of experience handling weapons, barely glanced at them before reaching for the gun.

The moment his fingers touched the engraved steel, his expression shifted.

A long, tense pause.

His eyes widened in shock.

He looked up slowly, scanning each masked face, his fingers tracing the familiar markings on the barrel.

A name he had heard only in whispers.

SHOPKEEPER (LOW VOICE)

"…Where the hell did you get this?"

Silence.

The camera lingers on his stunned face.

CUT TO BLACK.

— TO BE CONTINUED —