The Hunt Begins
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.
The heavy iron doors creak open. A shadow emerges—ARCHER CREED. His black coat sways as he steps out, his posture rigid, his eyes burning with quiet fury. The sunlight catches the gleam of his polished dress shoes, contrasting with the darkness in his gaze.
CLOSE-UP
His fists clench at his sides. His breathing is steady, but inside—a storm brews. He doesn't pause. Doesn't hesitate. His steps are sharp, purposeful, cutting through the silence of the corridors like a blade.
CUT TO
EXT. CITY ROOFTOP – DAY
A gust of wind howls as the camera tilts upward—Archer stands on the edge of a towering rooftop. His silhouette cuts against the gray sky, motionless, yet filled with the energy of a predator. The city below hums with life, but he doesn't see people—he sees prey. He scans the streets like a beast on the hunt, his gaze sharp, analyzing, calculating.
The camera zooms in on his eyes— they reflect the city, its chaos, its corruption. His fingers twitch slightly, eager, impatient. His target is out there. And he will find them.
A TEMPTRESS ENTERS THE GAME
Dimly lit, filled with the haze of expensive cigars and the murmurs of low jazz. The clink of whiskey glasses echoes. The crime lord, VIKTOR, sits on a velvet couch, his frustration hidden beneath a forced calm. A glass of bourbon swirls in his hand.
A knock. Two sharp raps. His right-hand man, DANTE, moves to open the heavy iron doors. The scent of expensive perfume drifts in before the woman even enters.
SIENNA VOSS.
She doesn't walk in—she glides. A black slit dress hugs her curves, revealing long legs that move like poetry. She's the type of woman who could make devils blush and saints reconsider their vows.
Sienna stops just a few feet away from Viktor, tilting her head, her lips curling into a knowing smirk.
SIENNA (purring)
"You know, Viktor… when you summon a woman like me, at least have the courtesy to send a car."
She moves closer, sliding onto the couch beside him, her nails tracing lazy circles on the armrest. Viktor exhales sharply, trying to keep his composure. She's dangerous—not just with a gun, but with words.
VIKTOR (leaning forward, voice controlled)
"Sienna, I don't call for pleasantries. I call for execution."
Sienna chuckles, crossing one leg over the other, the slit of her dress parting just enough to distract. She picks up Viktor's glass of bourbon, taking a slow, deliberate sip before handing it back.
SIENNA (whispering)
"Execution… such a harsh word for what I do. I prefer—artistry."
Viktor's jaw tightens. She's playing with him, and she knows it. But he needs her. He tosses a thick envelope onto the table—a down payment.
VIKTOR
"One million. Archer Creed."
Sienna raises an eyebrow, amusement dancing in her emerald eyes. She leans back, twirling a loose strand of hair between her fingers.
SIENNA
"Archer Creed? Now that's a name I haven't heard in a long time. The lone wolf who once walked away from the hunt. And you think money will bring him down?"
VIKTOR (gritting his teeth)
"Money will bring you to bring him down."
Sienna leans in closer, her breath brushing against his ear. Viktor doesn't flinch, but he grips his glass tighter.
SIENNA (soft, almost teasing)
"I don't hesitate, Viktor. But tell me… what's personal about this one? You're not a man who fears ghosts, yet you look like you've seen one."
Viktor doesn't answer immediately. He glances at the revolver sitting on the table—the cursed gun the thugs brought back. His grip on the glass tightens before he sets it down.
VIKTOR (gruffly)
"He doesn't know it was me. Not yet. But he's hunting. And when he finds out… he won't stop."
Sienna smiles, standing up slowly, adjusting her dress with a delicate pull. Her confidence is effortless, intoxicating.
SIENNA
"Oh, Viktor… you make it sound like I should be scared of him. But you know me…"
She steps forward, bends down slightly, and whispers against his ear.
SIENNA
"I eat wolves for breakfast."
She pulls back, winks, then turns toward the exit. As she walks away, she sways just enough to make sure Viktor is watching. Before disappearing into the night, she tosses a final remark over her shoulder:
SIENNA (mockingly)
"Have my money ready, darling. I'll bring you his head… or maybe just his heart."
THE PREDATOR AND THE PREY
A towering glass structure gleams under the city lights, standing as a monument of wealth and exclusivity. The entrance is lined with luxury cars, chauffeurs waiting, and doormen in crisp uniforms welcoming only the elite. The golden glow of chandeliers spills onto the marble steps as a lone figure approaches.
Archer Creed.
He moves like a shadow, his long coat swaying with each calculated step. His face—cold, unreadable. The kind of presence that doesn't go unnoticed, yet commands silence. He doesn't belong here among the billionaires and socialites, but no one dares question him.
The opulence is suffocating. Crystal chandeliers hang like frozen raindrops. The marble floor is polished to a mirror sheen. The air carries a faint scent of expensive cigars and aged whiskey.
As Archer strides in, the staff instinctively acknowledge him.
A male concierge subtly nods.
A bellhop pauses mid-step.
A pair of businessmen glance at him, their conversations dying in their throats.
Then, a soft voice cuts through the silence.
FEMALE RECEPTIONIST (with a practiced, welcoming smile)
"Welcome, sir. How may I assist you?"
She's young, impeccably dressed in a tailored uniform, her voice honeyed with professionalism. Yet, as Archer's cold eyes meet hers, a shiver runs down her spine.
ARCHER (calm, low voice)
"I need a room."
No hesitation. No extra words. Just a command.
The receptionist types swiftly, avoiding prolonged eye contact.
FEMALE RECEPTIONIST
"Of course, sir. Do you have a reservation?"
Archer doesn't respond. Just slides a black credit card across the counter. A brief pause—then she takes it, running it through the system.
FEMALE RECEPTIONIST (forcing a smile)
"You've been upgraded to the Celestial Suite. The most private room we offer."
She hands him the keycard, her fingers barely brushing his as she does.
FEMALE RECEPTIONIST (softly)
"Enjoy your stay, Mr. Creed."
Archer takes the card without a word, turns, and walks toward the elevator. His presence lingers in the air even after he's gone.
As the elevator doors slide shut, the camera slowly shifts focus to the far end of the lobby.
A figure steps out from the shadows.
Sienna Voss.
Her high heels click softly against the marble, her every movement feline, calculated. The red of her lips curves into a slow, knowing smirk. She's been watching him. Following him. And now? She's inside the same hotel.
She leans against the concierge desk, running a single finger along the marble surface.
SIENNA (mockingly, to the receptionist)
"Tell me, darling… does that suite come with company?"
The receptionist looks up, suddenly uneasy, as the camera lingers on Sienna's wicked smile.
FADE TO BLACK.