The Phantom’s Dance

Soft ambient light glows over the marble floor. Archer Creed enters, locking the door behind him. The penthouse suite is pristine, walls decorated with abstract art, the air thick with expensive cologne. The silence is welcoming… until—

BANG!

The mirror across the room shatters into a thousand splinters.

Archer instinctively ducks, his Glock 34 drawn in a blur. Another shot rips through the space where his head was milliseconds ago.

A shadow moves near the entrance—

Sienna Voss.

She steps forward, pistol raised, her leather jacket hugging her frame. A devilish smirk on her face.

SIENNA (cheeky, teasing)

"Missed me, sweetheart?"

ARCHER (checking surroundings, eyes locked on her)

"Didn't miss the shot, though. That was a hell of an entrance."

Sienna twirls the USP in her hand, taking slow steps forward. The tension in the room thickens.

SIENNA (smirks, licking her lips)

"Come on, baby. Let's dance."

She lunges—fast, dangerous. Archer barely sidesteps as her fist grazes his jaw. She twists, bringing up her knee—

THUD!

—a direct hit to his ribs. Archer stumbles, but he catches her wrist before she can fire again. He twists her arm—

CRACK!

Sienna grits her teeth, swings her other fist—Archer ducks, delivering a gut punch that sends her staggering back.

She recovers quick—launches herself at him, wraps her legs around his neck, flipping him onto the floor with a brutal leg lock.

THUMP!

Archer gasps for air—her thighs crushing his windpipe. He grits his teeth, shifts his weight—

CRASH!

They slam into the bathroom door, breaking it open.

Water drips from the marble sink, the air cool and sterile. The space is big enough for seven people. Sienna, still locked in, tightens her hold.

SIENNA (mocking, breathless)

"You're getting slow, Creed."

Archer's vision darkens. Desperation kicks in. He digs his fingers into her arm—forces his head up—and with sheer will—

WHAM!

A brutal elbow to her ribs. She gasps, grip loosens—Archer capitalizes.

He grabs her throat, flips her over—both of them soaked as the tap water splashes onto the floor. Sienna gasps, her back hitting the cold tile. Archer gets on top, pins her down—

SIENNA (grinning, blood dripping from her nose)

"God, I love it when you get rough."

Sienna glares at him, defiant, blood trickling from her nose. A tense moment of silence. Then, suddenly—

Archer releases her with a shove, standing up and moving toward his Glock 34 lying on the floor. His fingers wrap around the grip—

Sienna, still on the ground, slowly unzips her jacket. Her fingers slip inside her soaked sports bra, eyes burning with intent.

A small, razor-sharp knife sliding out from between the fabric.

Archer, turning back—too late.

Sienna lunges, blade flashing.

The knife arcs toward his ribs—

Archer's instincts kick in.

THUD!

His hand snaps up, catching her wrist mid-stab. The blade trembles inches from his skin.

Sienna snarls, twisting her wrist to free herself, but Archer is faster. He yanks her arm forward, spins her around—

He slams her face-first against the wall.

Sienna struggles, her breath ragged, but Archer's grip is iron. He raises his Glock, pressing the barrel cold against her cheek.

ARCHER (deadly calm)

"Who sent you?"

Sienna's body stiffens. Her breathing shallow. A pause. Then—

SIENNA (hoarse, defeated whisper)

"Viktor."

A sudden noise—

A guest, annoyed by the chaos, knocks aggressively.

GUEST (muffled, irritated)

"Hey! What the hell's going on in there?! I'm calling security!"

Sienna smirks. Archer tightens his grip.

With one last move, he slams her head into the wet floor—Sienna's body goes limp.

MALE VOICE (O.S.)

(muffled, irritated)

"What the hell is going on in there? Some of us are trying to sleep!"

Archer narrows his eyes. Sienna smirks slightly, despite the pain. Another knock, louder this time.

MALE VOICE (O.S.)

(grumbling)

"If this is some drunken—"

The door creaks open. A middle-aged man in a bathrobe steps inside, an air of arrogance around him. He takes one look at the wrecked room—the shattered mirror, the blood on the floor, Sienna pinned against the wall, soaked and bruised—

He stops. His eyes widen as he takes in the wreckage—glass shards scattered, blood smeared on the floor, the bathroom door barely hanging on its hinges. Then, his gaze lands on Archer Creed.

His face shifts from annoyance to shock.

BATHROBE MAN

"You… Archer Creed?"

Archer doesn't move. He simply stands there, his breathing steady, his gun holstered now—but the tension in the air is suffocating.

BATHROBE MAN (hesitant, curious)

"Are you back in the job?"

Silence. Archer's eyes flicker to Sienna, still unconscious, slumped against the wall, her wet clothes clinging to her bruised form. Then, he looks back at the man.

ARCHER (calm, unwavering)

"Do me a favor. Take this girl to the hospital."

The bathrobe man blinks, unsure whether to question or comply. But something about Archer's voice leaves no room for argument.

After a beat, he nods.

GOT THE NAME

The Sun glow brightly as Archer Creed steps out of the hotel. His black coat drapes over his broad shoulders, the white shirt crisp, his black tie perfectly knotted.

A man with a purpose.

He walks with calculated steps, his eyes locked on a distant alley. He knows where to go.

Exterior, abandoned warehouse

Through binoculars— Archer scans the warehouse. Gang members—armed, pacing, laughing.

He lowers the binoculars, exhales.

Reaches inside his coat.

His Glock 34 slides into his grip.

He reached the entrance..

A gang member, cigarette between his fingers, spots Archer approaching.

GANG MEMBER (mocking)

"The f*ck you want, pretty boy? You lost or somethin'?"

BANG! BANG!

Archer fires two rounds into his chest. The thug slumps to the ground. (15 rounds left.)

Another three men sprint forward, drawing their pistols.

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

Archer drops them mid-motion, one shot to the head, two to the chest for the last one. (10 rounds left.)

A fourth ducks behind a crate, peeking.

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

Archer fires, punching through the wood, hitting his target twice. (6 rounds left.)

Two more step out from behind a truck, guns raised.

BANG! BANG! (One down.)

BANG! BANG! (Second one stumbles back, lifeless.) (2 rounds left.)

Archer presses the mag release, catches the empty mag mid-air, slaps in a fresh one—17 rounds.

He moves inside.

The main gang leader, JAREK, stands at the far end of the room. He hears the shots. Eyes wide. He reaches for his gun— too late.

BANG!

Archer shoots him in the leg. Jarek drops to the ground, clutching his thigh. (16 rounds left.)

ARCHER (calm, yet ice-cold)

"Where's Viktor?"

JAREK (groaning, shaking his head)

"Go to hell—"

BANG!

Archer fires a round an inch from Jarek's ear. (15 rounds left.)

Jarek flinches, breathing hard.

JAREK

"F-F*ck! Alright! Panal City Center! He's at—"

BANG!

One clean shot to the head. Jarek's body goes limp. (14 rounds left.)

He walks away. No hesitation.

VIKTOR ARRIVES AT THE AFTERMATH

The warehouse is a graveyard of bodies. The air is thick with the metallic stench of blood. Bullet holes riddle the walls. Casings scatter the concrete floor. The flickering warehouse light hums in eerie silence.

A convoy of three black SUVs pulls up. The doors swing open. VIKTOR IVANOV steps out, flanked by six guards.

Dressed in a sleek charcoal suit, cigarette burning between his fingers, Viktor's face is unreadable. He steps forward, his expensive leather shoes squelching in fresh blood.

One of his men, DANTE, walks beside him, scanning the bodies.

DANTE (low, cautious)

"This wasn't a hit… it was a slaughter."

Viktor takes a long drag, then exhales slowly. He steps over a corpse—Jarek's body. Blood pooled around his lifeless eyes, a hole clean through his forehead.

A GUARD rushes toward him, breathless.

GUARD (urgent)

"Sir, we have a survivor."

Viktor raises an eyebrow, flicking his cigarette onto the floor.

VIKTOR

"Alive? Where?"

The guard signals. Another man drags a bloodied thug, barely conscious, propped against a crate. His face is swollen, a bullet wound in his shoulder.

Viktor crouches down, studying him.

VIKTOR (calm, but icy)

"Talk."

The thug coughs, his breathing ragged.

THUG (weak, trembling)

"It was… one man."

Viktor's jaw tightens.

THUG

"He moved fast… precise. Black coat. Tall… imposing…"

A pause. The thug winces in pain. Viktor already knows.

His expression darkens. He straightens, adjusting his cuffs.

VIKTOR (quiet, but final)

"Archer Creed."

Dante shifts uneasily. The other guards exchange glances.

Viktor looks down at the thug, emotionless. Then, with a slow breath—

BANG.

Viktor executes him with a single shot to the head. The body slumps lifelessly.

A tense silence. The flickering light buzzes.

Viktor tucks his gun back into his coat.

VIKTOR (to Dante, calm but firm)

"Find him. Now. Shit."

THE HUNT CONTINUES

Archer Creed moves through the footpaths, his face and coat smeared with streaks of blood. Pedestrians glance at him—some in curiosity, others in fear—but no one dares to stop him. His cold, focused eyes remain locked on his path.

He turns into a dimly lit alleyway, reaching a small, discreet gun shop: Ammu-Nation. The neon sign flickers weakly. He steps inside.

The shopkeeper, a grizzled man in his late fifties, looks up. His eyes widen in shock.

SHOPKEEPER (surprised)

"Shit… Archer Creed. I thought you were—"

Archer places his bloody Glock 34 on the counter, silencing him with a look.

ARCHER (flat, cold)

"I need firepower."

The shopkeeper swallows and hesitates.

SHOPKEEPER

"You… back in business?"

Archer doesn't answer. Instead, he points at the M4A1 on the gun rack.

ARCHER

"That. And a shotgun."

The shopkeeper eyes him for a second before sighing and unlocking the case. He pulls out an M4A1 carbine, its matte black body gleaming under the dim light.

SHOPKEEPER

"I've got a Benelli M4. But for you… I'd say you need something heavier."

He reaches under the counter and pulls out a SPAS-12.

SHOPKEEPER

"This is a damn cannon. Semi-auto, pump-action. Heavy recoil, but it gets the job done."

Archer doesn't hesitate. He nods.

He pulls out a black credit card—the kind that doesn't have a limit. The shopkeeper's doubts vanish.

The bag is filled. Ammo. Magazines. A knife. A suppressor.

PANAL CITY CENTRE

Archer steps out, slinging the bag over his shoulder. He looks up at the towering skyline. Somewhere in that city, Viktor is waiting.

He starts walking.

To War.

CLIFFHANGER

PANAL CITY – NIGHT

The city hums with life—cars moving, neon signs flickering, people lost in their own worlds. But amidst the chaos, a predator watches.

Archer Creed stands atop a nearby rooftop, his silhouette barely visible against the night sky. The wind tugs at his black coat as he watches the black SUV pull up near the entrance of the Orlov Grand Hotel.

The doors open. Viktor steps out. Dressed in a tailored suit, he adjusts his cuffs, oblivious to the eyes burning into him from the shadows. His guards flank him, scanning the surroundings, but they see nothing.

Not the hunter.

Not the nightmare waiting for them.

ORLOV GRAND HOTEL – NIGHT

Viktor walks through the grand entrance, greeted with respect, his presence commanding the room. He moves with confidence, unaware of the storm brewing outside.

Archer lowers his binoculars.

His grip tightens around the M4A1.

Nobody inside that hotel knows.

Nobody hears the silent countdown to death.

Because death has already arrived.

FADE TO BLACK.

TO BE CONTINUE—