The Devil’s Arrival
Dim lighting. A slow, rhythmic creak of a ceiling fan. The faint smell of gunpowder and machine oil lingers in the air.
Ammunition boxes are stacked behind the counter. Rifles hang on the walls. The shop is mostly empty—except for the man behind the counter.
REED CALLOWAY (Late 50s, rugged, one-eyed, wearing a grease-stained vest) sits behind the counter, cleaning a shotgun barrel with slow, practiced motions. His hands are steady, but his mind is somewhere else.
The door creaks open. A group of five hooded figures steps inside. The floorboards groan under their weight.
Click. A cigarette lighter sparks. A flame flickers. Smoke curls in the air.
One of them, LANKY THUG (mid-30s, unshaven, cigarette hanging from his lips), casually pulls a custom-made revolver from his jacket and drops it onto the glass counter.
THUD.
Reed's hands freeze. His good eye widens.
His fingers tremble as they reach forward. He knows this gun.
REED (low, almost a whisper)
"Where did you get this?"
Silence. The air feels heavier now.
The thugs exchange glances. Then—laughter.
LANKY THUG (mocking)
"Why? You a cop or somethin'?"
Reed ignores him. His eye is locked on the initials carved near the trigger guard. His jaw tightens.
He knows exactly who this gun belongs to.
He slowly looks up. His voice is colder now.
REED (gritted teeth, under his breath)
"The Devil has arrived."
The thugs ignore him and turn away, tucking the revolver back inside a jacket pocket.
The door swings shut.
INT. JUSTICE HOLDER'S ARMORY – NIGHT
A dimly lit chamber, walls lined with weapons of every kind. The faint hum of fluorescent lights buzzes overhead. The scent of gun oil lingers in the air.
SOLDIER 1 (guarding the entrance)
(raising an eyebrow)
"Archer Creed?"
Archer steps forward, his silhouette cutting through the dim glow. His black coat sways slightly, the weight of the past heavy on his shoulders.
SOLDIER 2 (blocking his path)
"Wait... Are you back?"
No answer. Just a cold stare. Archer keeps walking.
At the end of the room, a massive counter, behind which stands a FAT MAN—sweat glistening on his forehead as he polishes a shotgun. His eyes widen when he sees Archer Creed.
FAT MAN (half-laughing, half-nervous)
"Well, well… Look who's back from the grave. What's the job?"
Archer leans in, voice low but firm.
ARCHER
"Contract." (A lie. But a necessary one.)
The Fat Man studies him, then nods slowly. Turns to a steel vault. A heavy CLUNK echoes as he unlocks it.
The vault door creaks open, revealing a large black suitcase. Thick metal latches. Battle-worn edges. This isn't just any case. This is his case.
The Fat Man slides it across the counter.
FAT MAN
"Still remember the code?"
ARCHER (without hesitation)
"Archer Creed. 171702."
BEEP. CLICK. HISS. The suitcase unlocks.
Slowly, Archer lifts the lid. His face remains stone-cold, but his fingers tighten.
Inside, resting in perfect darkness—his Glock 34, custom grip, extended mag. Next to it, his hunting attire: white shirt, black tie, tactical belt.
For a moment, silence. His eyes lock onto the gun. His breath is slow, deep, measured.
His mind flashes—fire consuming his home, his father's revolver stolen, the mocking laughter of the thugs. His grip tightens.
He exhales. Calm. Controlled.
He's ready.
THE MISTAKE THEY DON'T KNOW THEY MADE
A dimly lit warehouse. Stacks of crates. A group of thugs surrounds a table, laughing, drinking. The air is thick with cigarette smoke. At the far end, Viktor Mikhailov—a brutal, calculating Russian crime lord—sits at his desk, scanning smuggling reports.
The thugs enter, carrying a small black case. Their leader, SILAS, a cocky, reckless man, places the case on the table and slides it toward Viktor.
SILAS (smirking)
"The job's done. We burned it all. The bastard didn't even fight back."
THUG 2 (laughing)
"Why he would fight back? He's dead in the fire!"
Viktor, distracted, keeps his eyes on his paperwork.
VIKTOR (without looking up)
"Did you find it?"
SILAS (shrugging)
"Nah, but we got this instead."
He opens the case—inside, a revolver. The metal gleams under the dull light.
Viktor finally looks up. At first, he doesn't react. Then, his gaze lingers. His fingers slowly reach for the gun.
He turns it, inspecting every detail. His breathing stops when his eyes land on a small engraved symbol—A BROKEN SKULL.
Viktor's face goes pale. His hands grip the revolver tighter.
A long silence.
Then— SMACK! Viktor slaps Silas across the face. The room falls dead silent.
SILAS (staggering back, confused)
"The hell, man?!"
Viktor stands, towering over the table. His voice is low, shaking.
VIKTOR (whispering)
"Do you know what you've done?"
The thugs look at each other, amused.
THUG 1 (laughing, kicking his feet up)
"What? Stole some old man's broken gun and burned his house?"
THUG 2 (mocking)
"Pfft. He didn't even fight back. I bet he's dead like a little bitch."
CUT TO – INTERIOR, JUSTICE HOLDER'S ARMORY – NIGHT
A locker door swings open.
Inside—a pristine black suit. A white dress shirt. A sleek black tie.
A pair of hands reach in.
CUT BACK – WAREHOUSE
THUG 3 (grinning, spinning a knife)
"Imagine thinking a broken gun would scare anyone. That guy's a joke."
CUT TO – INTERIOR, JUSTICE HOLDER'S ARMORY
A suitcase clicks open.
Inside—a Glock 34. A fresh magazine. Not like that he threw before.
A deep breath. Hands slowly load bullets—one by one.
CUT BACK – WAREHOUSE
THUG 4 (laughing, taking a drag from his cigarette)
"He was probably praying for a miracle when we burned his house down. Too bad nobody gives a damn."
CUT TO – INTERIOR, JUSTICE HOLDER'S ARMORY
Archer slips on his coat. Tightens his tie.
His eyes—cold. Focused.
CUT BACK – WAREHOUSE
THUG 5 (mocking, laughing)
"What's he gonna do? Chase us down with a f*cking stick? He's not alive for this."
CUT TO – INTERIOR, JUSTICE HOLDER'S ARMORY
Archer holsters the Glock 34.
Looks in the mirror.
His reflection stares back—not of a man. But of a ghost.
He exhales. Slow. Steady.
HE'S READY.
CUT BACK – WAREHOUSE
Viktor is silent. Staring at the revolver.
His grip tightens. Knuckles turning white.
A single whisper escapes his lips—a warning.
VIKTOR (muttering to himself, voice trembling)
"You idiots… you didn't bring back a gun. Didn't burned."
Beat.
VIKTOR (angry, slamming his hands on the table)
"I just said you idiots to steal that thing. Not this things bastards!"
His cold, dead eyes slowly lift toward Silas.
VIKTOR (shaking his head, voice barely above a whisper)
"You brought back a nightmare."
CLIFFHANGER - INTERIOR, JUSTICE HOLDERS' ARMORY – DIMLY LIT ROOM – NIGHT
Metal racks of weapons gleam under the flickering fluorescent lights. Archer Creed steps out of the armory room, dressed to kill. His black coat settles over his shoulders, the weight of his past pressing down on him. He tightens his tie—precision, control, death incarnate.
Behind him, the fat man, the armory's keeper, watches. His hands rest on the counter, but his eyes are locked onto Archer's back, reading the silent storm brewing inside him.
FAT MAN (grinning, testing)
"Whom to kill? The Crime Lord Viktor?"
A pause. Archer halts mid-step. His face unreadable. He doesn't flinch, doesn't turn. His fingers twitch slightly—he wasn't expecting that name. But he doesn't correct him.
ARCHER (calm, controlled)
"Yes." (Again a lie, because he don't want to push the conversation further)
The fat man lets out a low chuckle, wiping his hands on his apron, amused yet intrigued.
FAT MAN (leaning forward)
"Then maybe… you'll get a taste of his blood."
Archer says nothing. Just a slow, measured nod. The final confirmation. The air between them is thick—a silent promise of violence. Then, without another word, Archer strides off, his boots echoing against the concrete floor.
CUT TO BLACK.
— TO BE CONTINUE —