The Stapler's Relationship
A dimly lit hallway, stained with the echoes of violence. The air is thick with tension. Footsteps approach—fast, aggressive.
ARCHER CREED, bruised, breathing heavy, his suit torn at the shoulder, grips the metal stapler like it's his last weapon in the world. His face is damp with sweat, eyes burning with defiance.
THUG #1 (sneering)
"Look at this guy… what's he gonna do with a damn stapler?"
Laughter. A dozen shadows move closer. Then—
CRACK!
Archer lunges forward and slams the stapler against Thug #1's face, breaking his nose. Blood spurts, and the thug collapses, howling in agony.
The gang erupts, charging at him from both sides.
Archer pivots, dodging a wild punch, slamming the stapler's edge into another thug's throat. The man gags, stumbling back, choking.
THUG #2 swings a pipe—Archer barely ducks in time. The wind grazes his hair as the metal whooshes past.
He counters—staples the man's cheek. A sickening THUNK. A scream.
More hands grab at him. Archer feels a punch crash into his ribs—pain shoots through him. His grip loosens.
Another fist catches his jaw. He stumbles, spitting blood.
But he refuses to go down.
Archer spins, slamming the stapler against a thug's temple—he collapses like a puppet with cut strings. Another man lunges—Archer flips him over his shoulder, crashing him against the wall.
A knife flashes—a thug charges with a wicked grin.
Archer, bleeding from his lip, catches the man's wrist mid-air, twisting it hard—SNAP! The thug screams as Archer staples his forehead, again and again.
A thug grabs Archer from behind—a strong chokehold. Archer elbows back, struggling for air, his vision blurring.
THUG #5 (growling)
"Just go down, man!"
Archer drives his heel into the thug's shin, then slams his head backward—a brutal crack! The grip loosens.
Breathless, Archer grabs the man's wrist and bends it back violently—a sickening pop follows as the thug screams.
More men fall. More blood stains the hallway.
But Archer is slowing down.
A heavy boot collides with his chest—he crashes against the wall, coughing.
The last few thugs remain, circling him like wolves. He can barely hold himself up.
Archer tightens his grip on the stapler, blood dripping from his forehead.
The remaining thugs charge.
Archer Creed stands amidst the fallen. Blood pools beneath unconscious bodies. His breath is ragged, his suit drenched in sweat and crimson streaks. His grip tightens on the stapler, now smeared with blood.
The last three thugs charge.
Without hesitation, Archer hurls the stapler, spinning through the air—CRACK! It slams into Thug #1's forehead. He stumbles back, dazed, before crashing against the wall, unconscious.
The two remaining thugs close in, fists raised. No weapons. No tricks. Just brute force.
THUG #2 swings first—Archer parries, stepping in with a brutal elbow to the jaw. The thug's head snaps back, but he retaliates, kneeing Archer in the gut.
Archer gasps, pain surging. He barely dodges a second punch, rolling off the wall.
THUG #3 comes from behind, wrapping his arms around Archer's throat. A deadly chokehold. Archer's vision blurs.
Instinct takes over.
Archer grabs the thug's wrist, twisting it violently. The bones snap, a scream erupts. The thug stumbles, pain paralyzing him.
Then Archer sees the knife.
It gleams in Thug #2's grip. A wild lunge—Archer dodges at the last second.
He grabs the thug's wrist, forcing the knife into his own gut.
A guttural scream fills the hallway as the thug collapses, dead.
The final thug—his face twisted in terror—backs away. Archer grabs the stapler from the floor, blood dripping from his lips.
One step. Another.
The thug turns to run—too late.
Archer lunges forward and SLAMS the stapler into his eye.
A horrific scream echoes as blood spurts. The thug collapses, twitching for a few seconds before going still.
Silence.
Archer, bloodied and barely standing, leans against the wall. His breath shuddering.
He stumbles forward, deeper into the hotel.
Dante groans, clutching his bruised jaw as he's helped to his feet. Blood drips from his nose. His fury boils over.
DANTE (roars)
"CATCH THE BASTARD!"
The remaining thugs scramble, pulling out their weapons. But it's too late. Archer stumbles out of the warehouse, his breath ragged, body aching.
The streets are alive with neon lights and distant honking. A black SUV SCREECHES past on the wet asphalt. Archer's sharp eyes catch a glimpse—Viktor in the backseat, cool as ever.
A thug lunges—BAM! Archer dodges, slamming him into a dumpster. More come. No time to fight.
His gaze locks onto a parked sedan. Without hesitation, he smashes the window, hotwires it in seconds.
The SUV swerves through traffic. Archer, hands slick with sweat, presses the accelerator.
Behind him, two thug-driven motorcycles weave through cars, GAINING FAST.
One biker swings a crowbar at Archer's window—CRASH! Glass shatters, cuts streak across Archer's cheek.
ARCHER (gritted teeth)
"Persistent sons of bitches."
He jerks the wheel—SLAMS the biker against a passing truck. The rider flips through the air—BAM!—his body rolls across the asphalt.
The second biker speeds up, draws a pistol.
POP-POP-POP! Bullets WHIZ past Archer's windshield.
With a hard brake, Archer swerves, making the biker overshoot. He sees his chance.
GEAR SHIFT—TIRES SCREECH.
Archer RAMS the biker into a roadside post box, sending him flying. The road is now clear.
Viktor watches the chase in the rearview mirror.
VIKTOR (whispers, smirking)
"Death is near."
Archer floorboards it. His car GUNS forward, weaving through traffic. He spots an alleyway—A SHORTCUT.
Viktor's driver focuses on the road, unaware—
BAAAAM!
From the side alley—ARCHER'S CAR CRASHES INTO VIKTOR'S SUV!
The force sends both vehicles spinning into a street pole. Smoke hisses from the hoods.
The dust settles. Archer kicks his door open, his face shadowed by streetlights.
He locks eyes with Viktor—who's still alive, barely shaken.
This isn't over.
The wreckage smolders under the dim glow of streetlights. Glass shards scatter across the cracked pavement. An SUV rests against a street pole, its hood crumpled, smoke rising from the engine.
Viktor stumbles out, coughing. Blood trickles down his forehead, his once-pristine suit now torn and dirtied. He grips his ribs, trying to steady himself.
Then— he sees him.
Through the smoke, Archer Creed emerges.
Bloodied. Breathing heavy. His coat torn, his knuckles bruised and raw. His piercing gaze locks onto Viktor. A predator stalking its prey.
The driver, still inside the SUV, glances at Viktor, then at Archer. His fingers tighten around a USP pistol.
DRIVER (whispering, tense)
"What's wrong with this guy?"
Viktor exhales sharply, watching Archer approach.
VIKTOR (warning)
"No."
But the driver panics.
He bursts out of the SUV, gun raised. Aiming straight for Archer's head.
Archer doesn't flinch.
The driver lunges forward—PULLS THE TRIGGER.
CLICK.
A dry fire.
Too late.
Archer moves like a ghost. A brutal step forward—his hand SNAPS onto the driver's wrist.
CRACK!
A sickening twist. The gun drops.
The driver lets out a pained gasp before
THWACK!
Archer's elbow slams into his temple. The driver's eyes roll back as his body collapses.
Silence.
Viktor's face remains still. But his hands—his hands give him away. Slightly trembling.
Archer steps closer. Towering over him.
His voice is low, strained with rage.
ARCHER
"You have my revolver."
Viktor blinks. He swallows. Choosing his words carefully.
VIKTOR (calm, but wary)
"No, Archer. I don't."
Archer's fingers curl into fists. His breathing deepens.
Viktor hesitates, then tries again—his tone softening.
VIKTOR (measured, almost careful)
"I know what that revolver means to you."
Archer's jaw clenches. His teeth grind together.
VIKTOR
"Your father's revolver. The only thing left of him, right?"
Archer's eye twitches.
Viktor steps forward, voice lowering.
VIKTOR
"I know what loss feels like. I know what it does to a man. Look at yourself. You think he'd be proud of what you've become?"
For the briefest moment—silence.
Archer's breath is unsteady. His mind flickers. Memories of his father. The weight of the revolver in his hands.
Then—his rage wins.
His voice snaps like a gunshot.
ARCHER (calm)
"WHERE IS IT?"
Viktor stiffens. A beat.
Then, he exhales.
VIKTOR (quietly)
"Silas has it."
A cold stillness settles between them.
Archer's eyes darken. His grip tightens. His whole body coils like a loaded weapon.
Viktor slowly shakes his head.
VIKTOR
"Archer, listen—"
BANG!
A single shot.
Viktor's body jerks. His eyes widen in shock.
A dark red stain spreads across his chest.
He collapses.
The sound of his body hitting the pavement is drowned by the city's distant hum.
Archer stands over him. His breath ragged. His gun still smoking.
His face is emotionless.
This isn't over.
Not until he gets it back.
Not until Silas is dead.
CLIFFHANGER
The bass throbs, shaking the walls of the dark, smoke-filled club. Flashing red and blue lights paint the bodies of swaying dancers. The air reeks of vodka, sweat, and cheap perfume.
At a VIP booth in the corner, SILAS, a cocky, mid-tier thug, lounges with two girls draped over him. A gold-plated revolver—Archer's revolver—rests on the table beside a half-empty bottle of whiskey.
SILAS (laughing, drunk)
"You should've seen him, man! Viktor had the guy runnin' like a scared dog."
His crew of lowlifes chuckles, knocking back drinks, throwing cash at dancers.
Silas takes a long drag of his cigar, exhaling with a smirk. He taps the revolver, admiring the weight of it.
SILAS (grinning)
"Shame, though. This thing belonged to some old ghost. Now? It's mine."
A dancer whispers in his ear. He laughs, completely unaware.
Unaware that outside, a storm is coming.
A black silhouette stands across the street, staring at the club's neon glow. Archer Creed.
His bloodied coat flutters in the cold wind. His fingers curl into fists. His breath is slow. Controlled.
His eyes lock onto the club's entrance.
ARCHER (muttering, low)
"Mine."
The scene cuts to black.
TO BE CONTINUED...