The Creed Is Not Dead (Post-Credits)
A storm rages through the city. Thunder rips the sky apart as snow and rain collide, coating the streets in a soaked, glistening haze. People rush under flickering streetlights, umbrellas shielding them from the relentless downpour.
In the midst of this chaos—a lone figure moves against the tide.
ARCHER CREED.
His coat is drenched, his hair plastered to his forehead. His breathing is heavy, his eyes sharp, scanning the streets like a hunted man. His pace—urgent but calculated.
A TAXI approaches, its headlights reflecting off the wet pavement. Archer raises a hand, stepping into the street without hesitation.
ARCHER (low, breathless)
"Grand Mafia."
The driver hesitates, eyeing Archer through the rearview mirror. Archer doesn't waste time. He reaches into his coat, pulling out a black identity card—stamped with a seal of power and death.
The driver stiffens—then unlocks the door.
Archer slides in, his soaked frame collapsing into the seat. The door slams shut. The taxi peels away, disappearing into the neon-drenched storm.
JUSTICE HOLDERS OFFICE – NIGHT
A dimly lit room. Raindrops patter against floor-to-ceiling windows.
DRAY CASSIDY leans against his desk, cigar smoke swirling around him. His right-hand man, GRAYSON, stands nearby—watching his boss stare at a phone screen with a dangerous calm.
ON THE SCREEN: A grainy security feed—Archer Creed, stepping into a taxi.
Dray exhales sharply, his grip on the phone tightening.
DRAY (low, amused)
"Isn't he supposed to be dead?"
Gray looks uncertain, shifting on his feet.
GRAYSON (hesitant)
"We sent the best. Every assassin we had."
Dray chuckles—a cold, humorless sound. He flicks his cigar, ashes scattering across an expensive wooden desk.
DRAY (mocking, dark)
"And yet… a week later, he's still running."
He turns to Gray, his expression sharpening.
DRAY (deadly calm)
"Track him down."
CITY STREETS – TRAFFIC JAM –NIGHT
The taxi is stuck in gridlock. Honking. Frustrated voices. The storm grows wilder, wind rattling nearby shop signs.
Inside, Archer's jaw tightens.
Something feels wrong.
His instincts scream at him.
His eyes flick to the rearview mirror—a man on the sidewalk, talking into his phone.
Archer pays the driver fast, pushes the door open, and steps into the storm. His feet splash against the wet pavement.
He doesn't look back. He just starts running.
SILENCE.
Then—a quiet shift in the crowd.
Seven men.
Four on the left footpath. Three on the right.
They move in unison—shadows weaving through umbrella and neon reflections.
One of them nods.
A GUNSHOT RINGS OUT.
Archer spins left—the bullet whizzes past, slamming into a pedestrian behind him.
The street erupts into chaos—people scream, scattering like broken glass.
Archer moves—fast, precise. The sniper fires from a rooftop—misses.
More gunfire.
Archer dives through an alley, rain splashing up as he slides into the darkness. His heart pounds.
The pursuers split up.
Three men move left, three men circle right—guns raised.
One whispers into his comms.
UNKNOWN #1 (low, into radio)
"He's cornered."
They step forward—slow, methodical.
The rain pours harder. Archer presses against the wall, eyes narrowed. He exhales—just once.
A blade flashes in his palm.
The first thug gets too close.
BLINK.
A quick hand-to-hand struggle knife twists into the man's ribs. A sharp gasp—he drops, body hitting the rain-soaked concrete.
The other two whirl—guns aimed—
Archer grabs the fallen man's pistol—
BANG.
One goes down.
The last one fires wildly—bullets ricochet off metal dumpsters—
Archer ducks, rolls, kicks over a trash can lid—
BANG.
Another shot—perfectly aimed—the last thug collapses, his body blending with the street's shadows.
The alley is silent again
Archer breathes.
He straightens. Exhausted, feared..
Then—he runs.