Act 1 — The Awakening
Silence.
Not the absence of sound—something heavier. Like the void itself was swallowing all noise whole.
Darkness stretched endlessly. No edges. No walls. Just an abyss waiting to consume.
And then—
His eyes snapped open.
A man lay sprawled across a bed that felt foreign beneath his skin. The coarse sheets, the faint musk of stale smoke, the stale warmth of a room abandoned by time. Above him, a ceiling fan spun lazily, its blades cutting through the stale air with a whispering hiss. In the corner, a television screen flickered—only a dull blue glow illuminating the shadows, static crackling like distant thunder.
Outside, rain tapped a slow, uneven rhythm against cracked windowpanes. Thunder grumbled low and distant, a bruised sky weeping cold and grey over a city that had forgotten how to dream.
He was somewhere—some motel or forgotten room locked away from the world. But where? And why?
No memories clawed at his mind. No name echoed in the hollows of his skull.
He parted his lips, a silent plea for sound, but no voice answered. Just a dry rasp, like a ghost trapped in a throat too heavy to speak.
Slowly, carefully, he pushed himself upright, muscles stiff and protesting. His bare chest rose and fell beneath long, tangled curls damp with sweat. The faint scent of smoke and metal lingered on his skin. He glanced down to see a pair of worn shorts—threadbare, dusted with grit, as if someone had laid him here like forgotten cargo.
His eyes drifted around the room until they settled on a large mirror mounted across from the bed. Rising unsteadily, he approached, each step weighted with a heaviness that wasn't just physical.
In the cracked reflection, a stranger stared back.
A man with wild, unkempt curls falling over sharp cheekbones and tired eyes shadowed with a darkness deeper than the room itself. His skin was pale, almost translucent under the flickering blue light. There was no recognition—only the raw, unsettling truth of a man who had been erased.
Fingers trembling, he reached up and brushed a hand over his jawline, over a faint scar tracing the edge of his chin. The mirror caught the flicker of pain, or maybe it was confusion—he couldn't tell anymore.
Beside the glass hung a calendar. The yellowed page read:
July, 1987
The tenth was circled in thick, angry red.
Time was a language he had forgotten.
Before he could decipher more, a shrill ring shattered the quiet.
He spun around to face the source. An old rotary phone sat on a battered wooden table, the handset vibrating violently. Its relentless ringing echoed off the cracked walls—an urgent summons from a past he didn't remember.
Drawn forward by a force he couldn't name, he extended a shaking hand, fingers grazing the cold plastic. His heart pounded—loud, uneven. He lifted the receiver.
The room held its breath.
Act 2 — The Assignment
The line crackled—an ancient rotary phone buzzing with static that crawled into his ears like smoke curling through a cracked window.
A voice, low and distorted, slipped through the receiver.
"Wakey wakey, Reaper. Time to wake up—for real."
He gripped the phone tighter, knuckles pale against the plastic. Reaper. The name landed in his mind like a cold weight. A stranger's label stamped onto his hollow silence. He didn't know who he was, or what this meant. Yet, he listened.
"Listen close, kid. Your first task: Mikhail Borodin."
The voice dropped to a grim murmur.
"Russian mob kingpin. Runs the Mirage nightclub on 7th Avenue."
A pause stretched between them—a heavy breath hanging like smoke.
"He's a virus. A cancer. One wrong move and he'll spread poison through the whole body. Needs to be cut out."
The voice sharpened, colder now—sharp as a blade slicing winter air.
"Don't try anything stupid. We're watching you."
"Delivery's on its way. The package will reach you soon."
"Good luck surviving in this city, kid."
The line went dead with a final, hollow click.
He lowered the receiver, the silence afterward ringing louder than the call itself.
No name. No memory. Just a contract.
Then—
Three sharp knocks echoed through the room.
His pulse quickened.
Slowly, he rose and moved toward the door. The knocks came again—steady, deliberate.
He unlocked and cracked the door open.
No one stood there.
Just a heavy black box sitting against the threshold like a silent threat.
He crouched, hands steady despite the weight, and dragged it inside. Closing the door, the muffled patter of rain returned, mingling with the pounding in his chest.
He placed the box on the battered desk and stared at it, the room shrinking until nothing existed beyond its cold edges and the unknown waiting inside.
With a breath like ice, he peeled back the lid.
Inside lay the tools of his rebirth:
A sleek, matte-black .45 caliber pistol, its barrel cold and unforgiving, cradled by black velvet like a king's dagger.
Black leather gloves, supple and worn from hands that had gripped lives and death with equal calm. Folded with silent precision.
A long leather coat, heavy and black as midnight streets, stitched with silver snaps that caught the dim light like distant stars.
The dark owl mask, smooth and ominous—its sharp, angular eyes hollow yet piercing. It reflected nothing but swallowed all light, an empty mirror of his own lost soul.
Resting atop the pistol, a folded yellowed note, fragile as forgotten memories.
His fingers trembled as he unfolded the paper.
"Midnight. Mirage Club. Find Borodin. Do not lose the coin."
At the note's base, a soft clink drew his gaze downward.
A small velvet pouch, its contents heavy in his palm—a single gold coin, etched with the owl emblem on one side, balanced scales on the other.
He slipped the gloves over his hands, leather molding like a second skin.
The coat followed, its weight settling over his shoulders—a shroud, a new identity.
Last, he lifted the owl mask and placed it over his face, the cold plastic pressing against his skin, sealing the silence he carried.
The pistol found its place on his back.
He glanced again inside the box—and spotted a car key, cold and unmarked.
He took it, stood, folded the note into nothingness, and let it fall to the floor—forgotten.
The door beckoned.
Stepping into the night, cloaked in darkness and purpose, he vanished into the storm.
Act 3 — Drive Into the Hollow
The door clicked shut behind him like the final note of a symphony no one else could hear.
The hallway stretched ahead—dim, cold, and pulsing faintly with broken fluorescence. Lights buzzed and flickered above, vomiting sickly white flashes across faded wallpaper stained with smoke and time. The air smelled of rot and cheap cleaner, the kind that doesn't clean anything at all.
He moved fast—silent, focused. Like a shadow bleeding through the corridors. Boots thudding softly on mildew-ridden carpet, leather coat brushing against the walls as he passed.
He glanced briefly at the peeling poster mounted near the stairwell:
"Welcome to Grayhaven — Where Your Dreams Come True."
The smile in the ad was dead behind the eyes.
Just like everything else in this city.
He descended the staircase like a ghost returning to earth. One floor, then another. Silence echoing with each creaking step.
The rain outside was relentless now—angry drops battering the cracked motel windows, the kind of storm that felt personal. The kind that didn't wash anything clean.
By the time he hit the ground floor and pushed through the rusting exit doors, he was already soaked in neon and noise.
The world outside greeted him like a slap:
Night. Rain. Ruin.
Grayhaven pulsed with chaos. Sirens in the distance, but no urgency. Fires burning in steel barrels. A man mugging someone in full view of a half-sleeping patrol car. No one stopped. No one cared.
And there—
Parked just ahead beneath a buzzing yellow streetlamp—
A BMW M6 (E24). Black. Gleaming. Like it had been waiting for him all this time.
He didn't hesitate. The key in his gloved hand clicked once.
The car's lights flashed—two soft blinks in the rain.
He slid into the driver's seat. The leather interior creaked under his weight, familiar in a way his own name wasn't.
He searched the glove compartment.
First:
A bulky 80s brick cellphone, half-charged, antenna bent slightly. Still functional.
Second:
A hammer—heavy, stained, personal. Not a tool. A message. He held it for a moment. The weight felt... right. He set it beside the seat.
Rain traced slow rivers down the windshield as he pressed the key into the ignition.
VROOOM.
The engine growled awake like a sleeping beast. Alive. Angry. Ready.
His hands gripped the steering wheel with practiced ease. He didn't remember anything about himself—but his muscles did. His instincts whispered in the silence.
He shifted into gear. The car rolled forward, swallowed by the rain-drenched night.
Grayhaven blurred past the windows—street signs, neon diners, boarded-up pawn shops. Red light districts wrapped in shadow. A woman screamed somewhere far off. No one turned to look.
A billboard flashed overhead:
"Grayhaven — The City of Dreams."
Its paint cracked. Half the lights dead.
He stared at it. Then turned away.
As he drove deeper into the underbelly of the city, he reached toward the radio—tuning past static, talk shows, religious preachers ranting about sin, until—
click
—A channel caught him.
Slow, pulsing synths.
Darkwave. Like breathing underwater with a gun in your hand.
He kept driving. Headlights carving through puddles. The music became a heartbeat.
Somewhere ahead, Mikhail Borodin was waiting.
Somewhere ahead, a name would be crossed off a list he didn't remember writing.
And he?
He would become something.