3.27.25

You’ll Enter A Story Like No OTHER!

Q-City

                                                        By: Aliy Menrel

Pvo Aged Books

Intro:  Nasty Dark Thoughts

Chapter 0: Past Thirsty Beyond Belief

Chapter 1: Flags At The Red

Act 1: The Line Not To Cross

Chapter 2: Loose Rope                              

Act 2: Watch, when I get HIM Alone!

Chapter 3: Uh, Huh…Sure!

Chapter 4: Talking To Me Nice

Act 3: Needs To Revenge 

Chapter 5: No Gravity

Chapter 6: Loose Ropes

Act 4: It’s All Of My Business

Chapter 7: Finally Getting Sleep

Act 5: Unspoken Treason 

Chapter 8: Castle Death

Act 6: Demona

Act 7: Lost Facts Of Truth

Chapter 9: Fixing The Mix

Act 8: One To Eight Questions Left

Act 9: Last Move

Chapter 10: L.B.C.P

Outer: Angel Blood

Thank you to everyone who made me RETURN the Internet with RAMPAGE happening…

 This is a story about how to be brave & accept LIFE… the gifts we over look for more

This book is for all the days I didn’t sleep, so all my thoughts can hit paper again

Locked in a room alone with nothing but TIME to bring you with me

Nothing is like this Adventure…

- A. Menrel

This story from all of me, to YOU. 

 Intro: Nasty Dark Thoughts

 In the beginning of the war the disease had transformed the world into a dangerous place. Isolation seemed, as it was the only result for safety. 

 Everything was treason but still simple in the mixed of lies and feelings we all wanted, that money couldn’t buy anymore. 

 After we decide to separate our self from any race or religion, we didn’t want to see anymore death from the result of killing for superiority within cultures left to the United States. 

 The singularly enslaving of a culture did not work anymore, so the government removed the 13th amendment, turning citizens over as state property in America.

Before world war 4, the wipeout act commenced, leaving everyone in the world to perpetuate with the myth of love and compassion. Most went underground and fled to the cold haven.

After the spike of death decreased, other cultures blended again, growing stronger together out from separation.

Still weakened by thoughts of distrust, due to the reinstating of chattel slavery in parts of the world once called America.

All to make up for the fiscal deficits experienced from a war filled with anger and shame.

But one day something changed all that?       

The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don't have any.

 -Alice Walker

Chapter 0: Past Thirsty Beyond Belief

Words are forever, far from the mind of just the truth. We see abstract visions of a woman's footprints left deep across the brain like the only memory in the mind left. 

Micheal opens his eyes quickly, unable to sleep, Closing in on Micheal’s face (a scar is on the left side of his forehead). Sweat escaping like rain into his mattress out his cloudy grey shirt. Micheal holding all his thoughts in place of it being just a dream, Micheal looked at something off his full view, up on his left that held his alarm clock, going off to the time becoming 1pm.

(Sitting up from out the melted dead snowman print, removing himself from deep thought of the mystery women in his dream wearing all white)

Micheal placed his ass at the edge of the bed while his eyes fell into focus after every blink, waiting in the darkness for a response from the body to move again... He just sits there listening to the static coming in from the apple AirPods 5 underneath the creme glow from the eco friendly grass night lamp.

After a moment Micheal reaches for his earpieces and puts them both in his ear, Letting in the morning Los Angeles daily radio broadcast waking him up completely. 

Broadcast : Alright, we got another day here in sunny Los Angeles, California…

(Micheal stood up from off the edge of the bed, heading into the bathroom, for his morning routine with the broadcast still playing in his ears from the AirPods.)

Broadcast : Let’s take a look at our seven day forecast, we’re seeing lots of sunshine all week long, Temperatures in the mid to upper 70’s and don’t forget, it's taco Tuesday! 

So get your blow, hoes, and indo for the secret behind a free virtuous life and what do we measure as honorable before it became lost in all that we forgot to treat with love?

All coming up next when we get back, so don’t you change that dial…

Oh, ladies and gentlemen, it's hot, hot, hot like LeBron in the fourth quarter and its caliente outside. (Like this next song…Micheal taps the AirPods to put on mute, standing over the bathroom sink with the water running warm.)

Micheal finished brushing his teeth with a Bentonite clay mixture of coconut oil, clove essential oil and baking soda. Before mouth washing with enough peroxide to gargle up all the forgotten hard to reach places with a toothbrush, while releasing the unwanted down the drain. Spraying around the sink with the bottle of bleach that sat near everything Michael needed before running out, as he removes the leftover DNA mixed with clumps of black spit clay laying in the sink.

(Micheal looking in the mirror with a reflective glow of the teeth, that was just a smile that would forever be ignored by the billionaires who lived in the kingdom of heaven.)

Micheal saw his 20 year old self in the mirror despite the pasting time.

Micheal locked it up in his pain that couldnt be expressed without broken steel, at that moment remembering the reason he still exists with all that was happening in Hollywood.)

Micheal walks to the bathroom closet, opening the door to find his vault that was unlocked with Tinashe’s birthday as the code. Micheal grabs his phone and wallet, leaving his pistol and the useless documents that had no power to what could fix the problem he was facing since Tinashe vanished without a trace.

 (It didn’t matter that days were becoming shorter to the months ending faster, with all Micheal’s wishes that he carried with himself after high school being just a silly thought now. L.A yet again had just become another whole year to all that wasn’t accomplished in the changes beforehand.)

 Micheal was in the last year of the house lease before it could be renewed, Micheal was unclear on where all the time went with all the memories left inside the house. There was enough love in the walls that made it uneasy to walkout and just leave.

Micheal wasn't focused on the news & blogs over the rest that was more important than him being sure of where he wanted to go with his family after taking time to breathe. 

Micheal walked out of the bathroom with the lingering scent of “YOU” by Amani beauty surrounding him, with his eyes catching a glimpse of him happy in a photo hanging on the wall, when on the next iron chef, that sat next to the photo of him and Karen Bass. 

Micheal faced the outfit hanging on the front of the wardrobe to Narnia, Despite the shower from yesterday, he wasn't feeling excited to be handsome for the celebration of death. 

 After completely clothed and ready for the Tuesday church service, he was on his way towards the door. Micheal suddenly stops, before getting to the front door.

In his Gucci shoes, he stops at the entrance of the hall leading to a door. Micheal slides on a pair of Ray-Bans while looking at the METAL door down the hall.

This secret held on top of him not knowing where his daughter was in addition to what was behind the door, he began to touch the scar on the lower left side of his forehead.

Michael happened to be feeling tall by more than half his actual foot size.

He was muscular like a fit dad in L.A, To whom many would hardly ever see smile or break his character along the lines of all the secrets that hid behind his smile that outshined his bald head and all the gold Micheal wore. Fixing the ray-ban’s on his face without ever removing them off his face at all, Micheal continues to the front door wondering if it was time, grabbing his keys off the hook before closing and locking it behind himself.

Micheal walking made him became past thirsty beyond belief!

Micheal: A cup of coffee with whiskey before the service starts will do, but will i have time? ( he thought to himself looking down at his watch that said it was close to 3pm.)

Micheal could hear the seagulls behind him as he shut the door, while huffing and puffing over the lost of time that he couldn’t get back.

(Or the time he will lose trying to get back inside, with his auto lock key that Micheal forgotten on the hook inside)

Chapter 1 : Flags At The Red

- Broadcast :Don’t forget to grab an umbrella, It’s HOT, HOT, HOT, HOT, HOT!(tapping it off)

Beautiful and annoying the seagulls conversations flooded the air, coving the yard, car and house by Micheals sight after moving through the doors of the quiet home, where a light breeze blows through the windows of sheer blue curtains, Micheal turns ever-so-slowly with the door being locked behind him, before charging down the steps toward the car.

Micheal takes a moment to feel the wind before leaving his heaven, removing all his happiness and enjoyment before unlocking the car door automatically!

Micheal took himself completely into a daydream of himself standing on the beach, pretending to be asleep as the waves behind him roared into the red, blue and white of morning. (That was something before reopening his eyes) 

Micheal dives into the whip of his shiny Butterfly Mustang, causing many of the seagulls to flee back into the sky above the nearby cliff that belonged to the sea behind the house. 

Once in the car Micheal checked his rear view, snapped his seat bell and inserted the key.

Abruptly turning the key and hitting the gas, pulling out the driveway slowly into a small circle.

 Micheal hits the brake before pushing gas again to move forward, the car SCREAMS around in a tight circle that places him on the road after.

Micheal's car pushes wildly weaves from lane to lane across the road like a bullet, Micheal pushing already up to 70 MPH, racing through a yellow light at the corner.  As the next light turns red, the metal door back at the family house slides OPEN.

Picking Up In Speed…

At the light, Micheal reads the time off the car stereo before taping his AirPods back to resuming wherever the broadcast was currently at, looking over his shoulder out his tinted window of his growling Mustang headed up a freeway ramp. 

Micheal taps his AirPods at the ears, before falling into the incoming voice left on paused broadcast filtering up to the moment of the current topic? (Micheal looks left before merging onto 10 freeway)

Micheal HITS 75 mph straight. Then 80. (Comes up to an intersection) Eases off.

Makes a hard right at the last second into - creating dust from the hot wheels tearing up, straight down into light traffic off the rampage freeway.

Broadcast (Continued): I have flaws like the next and like meaning when you young the complete thought of perfection, was what we all want to round it all up being. I think now that I am older I see that I messed up a lot trying to be better than those that wanted to just help me. I, like most of the listeners who were too stubborn to let angels help me, and believe it or not over time people stop trying before giving up and move on with their life.

The light turned green while the gears grind to the push at Michaels foot, Closer to Fairfax avenue in the exiting north, while zipping around the average stock of cars in a blur. (While the voice in his ear gets louder than the passing cars and beeping of horns, that was not louder than the hot burnt smell of rubber in the L.A air.)

Broadcasting: If you have made mistakes, there is always another chance for you. You may feel a fresh start will not at any moment you choose, come for this thing we call ‘failure' to be lifted over the guilt we place on ourself. Not falling down hurts, but staying down will forever as you tell yourself that you are accepting defeat and okay with it. Sure fall like the rest do in the path of gaining strength again, so don't worry about the talk on your time to get back up.

EXT. THE STREETS OF LA  

Micheal’s car sails into a thin blur of busy traffic, building in speed and energy to the engine of the Mustang. Despite the velocity of the twin gateway lanes, Micheal is calm at the wheel, weaving through the light traffic like an android. 

Broadcast: Here is a simple question. What's Next? What do you want to be, before death? Where are you going to be when you close your eyes and reopen them? What’s out there that we may never learn? What are the possibilities of having more without the extra problems that come with it all? 

Micheal listened with close intently to the broadcaster's words that he could relate too…

At every stop!

Broadcast: We are forgetting who we are for the things we want from a human now, that we didn’t want before, we act on listening to not our needs and wants, but the desires we try to understand everyday inside the core, that we all know we crave.

Slightly in the future, the city’s been developed even more in machine matter and electric cars with a massive amount of robots working in offices, at the front desk of apartment and mall complexes. The city of angels had been designed for comfort and ease to what LA used to resemble a long time ago. All the taller buildings, as far as the eye can see, are mixed with wires that escape from the ground like wisteria vines. Construction cranes loom overhead the hovering cars in the way of seeing the sky that no longer was clear in the lower parts of Los Angeles. 

Pulling up to a large crowd in front of the Daniels L.A Leather store, waiting and pushing each other. The respect was ignored for the thirst of a coat made either by a sea otter, arctic fox or a chinchilla mouse. It did not change the true desire and want at 189 Grove drive on a Tuesday afternoon. 

Micheal watched from his parked night rider Mustang, as the lines grew crowded with pests to the entrance of stores that sat outside the court of choices, in hopes of having a chance in getting a WBC made from polar bear.

(Turns out fur's primary function is insulation, trapping air and acting as a barrier to heat transfer, some animals like to utilize their fur to reflect and channel heat, with their black/brown skin that absorbs the light and retains heat.

After Daniel figured out the pricing of each mammal with darker colored coats that can absorb more heat from solar radiation, giving the ability for the buyer to stay warmer and cooler in the scorching sun. It was only a matter of time before he became the biggest producer in a global movement for HEAT FREE fur coats. The smaller kid voles coats had sold faster due to having darker fur in the winter.

Lost in the heat before winter!

Micheal looks at the time on the car stereo as he smoothly clears his voice to have a clean conversation with his phone named Sabrina.

Micheal: Hey, Sabrina!

Sabrina: Hello Michael, How can I assist you today? (Responding in a heavenly tone )

Micheal: Give Me The Latest News Updates, would you?

Sabrina: Of course Micheal, As you wish! (She responds back… while uploading mp4 clips and images of everything onto his ray-ban glasses for him to see it all visually, while hearing Sabrina verbally still.)

(Micheal awaiting on the incoming)

Sabrina: Los Angeles Times weather. Your seven day forecast is partly--

Micheal: No, Next! ( He said in a quickness)

Sabrina: The Death Of Shaq--

Micheal: No, Next!

Sabrina: China/India merger headed for regulatory approval with-- 

Micheal: Next, Please!

Sabrina: World trade deals stalled as Russia talks in breaking --

Micheal: Next, No just stop! (Over the lies of politics with him knowing, nothing she was about to update him on would fix his thoughts)

Micheal on his handheld device that is revealing a hologram map from his Apple 360 (the world’s first artificially intelligent operating 3d map system) as he listens to news headlines. While pulling into a covered parking lot underneath a quiet shopping complex before locking the Mustang in park, pulling up next to a Dragon Ferrier.

The broadcast played after the location was confirmed…

Broadcaster: Dating is different when you get older. You're not as trusting, or as eager to get back out there and expose yourself to someone.

"What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly”.

Micheal flips across radio Channels in the mashing and merging of many voices before stopping on the latest on what was happening in L.A

 Micheal cracks the passage's side window to hear the aggressive and exhausting cacophony of traffic, little by little in the twist of faded music that is heard in the distance, coming from the inside of the New Grove.

EXT. DOWNTOWN / New Grove - Starbucks

Everyone making commotion can be heard, once the door on the drivers side of the Mustang had been opened the world syncing around him: a chorus of car honks, dogs barking in heat, cell phones and skates, wheels marking up the pavement like chalk. In the mix were a few murmurs to themselves, occupied with their small devices having them locked into a more useless existence that became the new normal. ( especially at the side of the head of almost half the Americans that just wanted to forget the once fight for control as just a once citizen with rules and a voice of freedom, that had been replaced with a mute to the void electricity filled in our lonely lifestyles around the world.

 Closer to the front door, Micheal walked through the commuter crowd. As the number of bugs flying around the polluted L.A air grows with the attraction to a short bathed mixer of “natural diversity” in the murmuring inaudibly of their own devices.

Disappears down an alley in passing of office workers that stride without purpose to work, instantly waving off these back thoughts of having to feel the way all of them looked.)

Once at the door in the alley that leads into the New Grove, he taps his earphones firmly in place, his shades able to see all in the court before entering the next stage of chaos.

Before Micheal could stroll down the amusement of the “New Grove” Micheal caught the passing light dry breeze before entering the white hall.

The sound ‘Welcome To Your Life’ by Tears For Fears played out into the moving crowded space of happiness and joy, to what most would travel from all over to experience.

The song played in the reawaken for a cup of coffee!

Micheal looks around past moving figures, seeing SpaceRock before Starbucks, seeing other young people of all ages, running around, smiling, chatting, and enjoying their carefree lives in the mix of human-bots put in place of what we used to call cops.  

 Their actions are magically on time with his personal to how fast the scanning of a threat could be, Micheal walks against the moving foot traffic towards his destination, while in his bubble of thought.

Los Angeles cast long shadows, the stark reality: law enforcement in this sprawling metropolis is a complex ecosystem, far from a uniform blue line. When people talk about "robots" in LA policing, they're often referring to three distinct, though sometimes overlapping, categories: the LA Robots, the Robot Cops, and the Cops in Robot Suits.

Understanding the difference is crucial to grasping the city's unique brand of justice.

The LA Robots. This is the broadest and most encompassing term, often used by the general public to refer to any automated unit involved in law enforcement. Think of them as the ubiquitous, often utilitarian drones and automated systems that are deeply ingrained in the city's infrastructure. These might be the hovering patrol drones that monitor traffic, the automated kiosks that issue parking tickets, or even the self-driving police cruisers that patrol designated zones. The LA Robots are typically pre-programmed, follow strict protocols, and are designed for efficiency and widespread surveillance. They lack true sentience or independent decision-making capabilities beyond their operational parameters. Their "differences" lie in their specialized functions – a traffic bot is decidedly different from a perimeter security bot. They are tools, extensions of the human-operated precinct, but tools nonetheless.

Next, we have Robot Cops. This term usually denotes a more advanced, often semi-autonomous, artificial intelligence unit designed to perform the duties of a police officer. These are not just drones; they are programmed with sophisticated algorithms for threat assessment, de-escalation protocols, and even rudimentary forms of investigation. A Robot Cop might have a humanoid chassis, allowing it to interact more directly with citizens and navigate complex environments. They can process vast amounts of data in real-time, access databases instantaneously, and are immune to fatigue and emotional bias (though this last point is debated by some legal scholars). However, their decision-making, while advanced, is still governed by their programming and the parameters set by their human supervisors. They are often deployed in high-risk situations where human officers might be put in undue danger, or for repetitive, data-intensive tasks. The "difference" here is one of intelligence and autonomy compared to the LA Robots. They are more sophisticated, more capable of independent action within their defined roles, but still fundamentally machines executing code.

Finally, and perhaps the most visually striking, are The Cops in Robot Suits. This category refers to human police officers who are physically augmented by advanced exoskeletons and powered armor. These are not independent robots; they are human beings inside sophisticated, weaponized suits. The suit provides enhanced strength, durability, and often integrated weaponry and sensory equipment. These officers are the frontline shock troops, the ones who confront the most dangerous criminals, breach fortified locations, or operate in environments too hazardous for un-augmented humans. The suits are their tools, their armor, and their force multipliers.

The "difference" here is profoundly the presence of a human consciousness at the core of the operation.

While the suit grants them superhuman capabilities, the decision to act, the judgment call, the empathy (or lack thereof) originates from the human officer within.

They are still subject to human error, fear, and personal judgment, but amplified by technology.

In essence, it’s a spectrum. The LA Robots are the ubiquitous, programmed enforcers. The Robot Cops are the intelligent, semi-autonomous agents. And the Cops in Robot Suits are the augmented humans, the ultimate fusion of flesh and high-tech military hardware. The lines can blur – a Robot Cop might be deployed inside a specialized robot suit-like chassis for certain operations. But the fundamental distinction remains: the presence and nature of the "mind" behind the metal. One is pure programming, another is advanced AI, and the third is human will, amplified. And in the chaotic streets of Neo-LA, understanding that difference can be a matter of life and death.

But it was all the same bullshit in Micheals mind.

Daniels L.A Leather that sat between Kit-Cat World and Pizza Pop, gave Space Rock a run for its money.

Approaching what was busy by the passing of supply and demand at its highest, Very busy and hard to access by the entrance could be seen as the increased crowd becomes dense and more excited for the new releasing Ice coat.

Micheal taps fully into his swagger as he approaches the Starbucks, walking by the other attractions. We see reflected holograms in the glass of the KIT-CAT that had been becoming as popular as Pokemon cards. ( The world was in a up roar over Kit-Cat Cards found in every purchased Kit-Kat, that was an extra guarantee of cuteness to the additional happiness received with “Taking A Break”) 

Micheal hears the Church clock ringing off!

Reminding him of the task before the sunsets, Micheal sees a human-bot with an actual human holding hands in public.

Micheal watches as they pass in confusion to the new laws that were breaking the balance of what he used to remember seeing before all he found hard to accept now. (He wasn’t the only one!)

As the song fades into an ending of wonder to what was next in the court to be played, Micheal opens the door with his elbow, before he stops it with his foot, all while being watched by the clerk wearing a green apron with the words Starbucks coffee written across it.

Completely in the shop of what smelt like a ‘good morning’ to all that was or wasn’t having the best morning.

Starbucks Clerk: Welcome back to Starbucks, Micheal ! 

(Micheal walks closer to the counter for a better look at the menu, while responding back)

Micheal: Good afternoon, I’ll have a dark white latte! -No sugar, No cream ( Holding his arm out, ready to pay with the chip in his wrist)

Every cup of Starbucks coffee would take him back to when he was 20 with a sip.

Starbucks Clerk: Oh, you’ve fixed yourself up!

( He commented with her back turned away to make his ‘dark white latte’, this began to confuse Micheal a bit, as if he was looking trashier before now? 

Micheal: Thank you! (he responded looking down at this watch for the time, while blocking out the voices in the coffee shop, only hearing the pour of his latte and the rumbling sounds of the incoming storm traveling closer. )

Starbucks Clerk: That would be 7$ (He responded with placing the cup on the counter and pushing it gently towards Micheal)

Micheal: Have a good day! (He responded with a grin)  

Starbucks Clerk: Thanks, You as well Micheal!

After paying and picking up his latte, Micheal walks off embarrassed he didn’t know Clark's name that he once knew by heart. At the long table placed in front of the glass window, an older caucasian man that was very well-dressed, sat next to a goddess that sat in the middle of him and Micheal.

Micheal pulls out a seat beside the lady, removing a tiny bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey from his inner vest pocket, snaps the top off to combine with his latte.

Unknown Lady: You think that's something you should be drinking?

Micheal looked at her, seeing the reflection of him in her eyes while pouring the whiskey, earphones in the ears and shades still on his stoic, poker face. 

Stephen: Nakisa don’t babe, Not right now…

Micheal: Oh Stephen leave her, this is forever like my habit for a whiskey coffee in the morning!

Nakisa looking past Micheal glasses and directly into his soul releasing her worry upon him in all her beauty.

Nakisa: Fine…! (responding to Stephen first before returning to Micheal) Did you find her yet?

Micheal sips his coffee quietly before thinking of a different way to say NO, without sounding like a failure yet again. Nakisa leans forward at a halt  to hear Micheal’s response, even Stephen grows in a panic at Tinashe missing this long without a word or note left before she just up and leaves.

Stephen: I spoke to some friends of mine in the airport and nothing was found under her buying a ticket outside of L.A. Mike!

Micheal: Who’s to say it's under her name or it was not by train or bus?

Stephen is silent to Micheal's counter response, Nakisa unable to remove her eyes off Micheal or change the pain in her face.

Nakisa: That's it I’m calling MOM!

Stephen steps out his comfortable pose with the fear of how no one would get a goodnight sleep again by Nakisa's next actions that wasn’t ever decided between them all.

Stephen: Babe… maybe she doesn't wanna be found after the demand of more with what was given from her tenth album? Maybe she just taking time from us all and when she ready to let us see and have her again, she will return…( I hope?) 

Micheal, still silent with additional sips being had, Nakisa pulls her phone out and places it on the table for all to see. ( Unlocking the phone)

Stephen is scared of momma bear being woken by what maybe nothing to worry about, Tinashe was grown and should be free to make her own choices in life at this point. ( Without someone else trying to control her journey)

Micheal sips his coffee again before gathering his scrabble words with the letters he had, over what Nakisa had put down on the board already in anger.

Micheal: I got one lead!

Nakisa , shocked, pulling back her aggression towards Micheal in waiting for him to share with her , Micheal stands up with his coffee and starts walking to the front door, to leave the shop as if he was a spy conveying an important secret.

Nakisa and Stephen sat with only more questions and worried about what they couldn’t rest their minds on, was she okay, why didn’t she say anything before leaving her phone & travel bags?

As Micheal exits the coffee shop Nakisa phone goes off, who could this UNKNOWN caller be?

Nakisa & Stephen looking at the phone together before back at each other, unshare who could it be!

 The mysteriously important Micheal stands by the curb outside of Starbucks, The obsessed smell echoing from Pizza World was more than one person pretending he/she couldn't ignore. 

Nakisa really put things in perspective of Micheal needing to move faster if he wanna make the service. From where Micheal was standing the entire world seemed utterly insignificant, before the footprints over to the KitCat could happen one last look in the direction of the mini pop-shop of what Pizza World was now, remembering when he first took Jr to the first opening before snapping out of an image flashback to that very day.

Micheal walked over to KitCat, hoping to speak to a Kitty before Tuesday service was over and completely over. (walking away from all the smiles and happy faces)

INT. The KitCat Shop - Noon

 The doors close behind Micheal with only laughs at release, away from all the tension and choices that were left outside. The kids all had smiles on their faces of just the display on different “Kats” that had been found within the shop. (that was bigger inside, to the smaller appearance outside by all walking passes!)

Micheal eyes watch the flow in the tubes above pushing a swirl of rich coco liquid chocolate, down a funnel. The chocolate pours into a mold that's seen from the window behind the clerk, one of hundreds inching along a conveyor belt. This isn't any ordinary chocolate made with soy, peanut and wheat. Blended & bathed before in the perfect amber light heat, to avoid burning of the oat coconut milk that was being constantly swirling in a machine connected by tubes extracting different ingredients from each direction of what only Micheal eyes could see from afar. The chocolate bars continued along the belts visible past the glass, the shopkeeper behind the counter kept walking back and forth to attend to children waving  while the great bellows swell and gently puff. 

Releasing smoke from the boiling that smelled like old fashion hot chocolate that escaped into the court that was mingling in perfect with the aroma coming from Pizza World. Micheal could hear the presser slam down, lifting to reveal the word it has imprinted: KITCAT. (across all five sticks that make up one bar) While the children ran all over and across the heads of all the hardworking chained up Mexicans below sweating out, underneath the shop where it's quite dark. All to promise America a product that is forever “The Best Break, You’ll Ever Get” making headlines nationwide with the United kingdom. (who still was owner of all power, under whatever Nestle did behind their backs to meet the previous deadlines given after the ‘Final War’.) Still moving down the hall of the chocolate red floors, children can be spotted laughing freely in conversations, standing around inside lanes that cut off from the original path towards the cash register.  Micheal looks back along the belt as hundreds of bars line up to be stamped one by one. The molds suddenly flip over, dumping each bar onto its own set of wire fingers. (the machinery itself all together made Micheal feel young again). Strangely, we don't see a single person working. As the chocolate reaches the tip-top of the track, before into a small package of each bar. The track flings each bar over the top, As Micheal watches each candy bar plummet in free-fall, until the tiny package. Leaving the candy bar to drop onto another conveyor belt. Each piece of chocolate lands perfectly square on its own sheet of foil paper. (Looking further ahead) Micheal can see the machine that bends the foil around the chocolate. (But before we get there), A HUMAN HAND reaches in and lifts five bars off the belt. Just as suddenly, a thin KatCard is printed on the back of each of the KitCat bars. (One by one) 

 Micheal approached the counter while the foil-folding machine did its job, perfectly encasing each piece of chocolate. Micheal places one special bar on the counter of it all being just junk that had a secret far past the facts given, Micheal continued watching as another device attached to the paper wrapper, printed to read: KITCAT BAR. (Pushing further down the belt, out of sight to the stacking and sorting of machines loading up boxes and cases of the bars. A mechanical stamp thumps down inside each cardboard box, marking its final destinations out of L.A: NEW YORK, SPRINGFIELD, CANADA, MEXICO and CHINA.

Micheal eyes move through the room, which is decorated entirely in shades of brown and cream of color to the waffle color inside the bar. The carpets were chocolate red, and the cement holding the building together was in the color of fudge. All the walls and ceilings were made of a fake chocolate as well, holding the smell of a KitCat inside the cemented like mixture. The only thing Micheal can see is the shopkeeper's hands and the double ‘K’ cuffs of her velvet jacket, as she sets a KitCat on the counter.

Shopkeeper: No it hasn't come yet (speaking to a random child who’s smiles, with his mouth ringed with chocolate.)

Micheal smiles at the sight of it all being innocent to anyone with a good heart,

not a tear in the corners of Micheal’s eyes, filled with  emotion. 

Micheal didn’t return with a full smile back at the little boy, (instead a smirk of kindness). 

The shopkeeper lifts up off kneeling down to meet the boy on the same level, the storekeeper named Kitty looks at Micheal in full eye stretch. ( Ignoring when she first noticed him by the ChipKits.)

Micheal: Hey, Kitty

Kitty: Hey, How's the HUNT going ?

Micheal: Cold!

Kitty: I see you got your coffee already, so why the candy?

Micheal: same as everyone else looking for the golden Kat I guess?

Kitty: Just ONE?

Micheal: Two?

Kitty: Try again (she said winking at him)

Random Kid: 6, 7, 9! (standing behind Micheal shouting numbers)

Kitty: ? Waiting on (Micheal’s next answer?)

Micheal: THREE, matter a fact !

Kitty: Did you go?

Micheal: No, I'm headed there after!

Kitty: the service is almost over Micheal? (concerned he wouldn’t make it)

Micheal: I have time he responded ( after looking down at his watch that said 5pm)

Kitty: I think we forget how important death is, when its your last chance to say goodbye!

Micheal got silent with the child standing behind them, waiting on line!

The SHOPKEEPER places the items in a red market bag labeled ‘KitCat’ with an extra unknown item and hands it off to Micheal. 

Micheal sits his whiskey tainted Starbucks cup on the counter before he grabs the bag and quickly removes a bar from the bag to hand over to the random kid waiting to buy another. The child tears off the wrapper and takes an enormous bite, while holding the rare Kat Card.

(And suddenly, from underneath the wrapper, there comes a ‘rabbit’ instead of a Kat.

Random Kid: Awe man! (discouraged with his discovery)

Micheal: What's wrong? ( Confused on his dissatisfaction to what was shown to him on the card)

Random Kid: It's a useless “Bunny” again! ( Replying to Micheal’s question while looking at the rabbit resting on a log, next to a box KitCat Balls in a forest.)

Kitty: Remember just ten of those can get you a random Kat ! (She responded quickly to change his feelings towards the card that had no actual value to the goal of collecting Kats dressed in a KitFit!)

Random Kid: Hum….that would take too long when I can keep opening KitCats! (thinking about it all while handing the card over to Micheal)

Random Kid: Thanks for the bar (he said in a very unbothered tone, before walking off into the crowded store of children)

The random kid takes another bite...and another…of the delicious bar that was free from just waiting, swallowing pieces without hardly chewing!

Micheal: oh, the sheer blissful joy of being able to fill one's mouth with rich solid food of chocolate really does make us all happy! (speaking to Kitty while they both watch the child vanish into the noise of children with a mouth full of KitCat)

The mood in the room deflates as reality sets in, as Kitty puts Micheals change on the counter.

Kitty: Take it easy out there, Micheal! 

Micheal reaches out a hand to take the extra change Kitty left on the counter for him to receive, Micheal picks back up the cup he placed on the counter a few moments ago, before he begins walking away from the counter and Kitty all together.

Ext. The New Grove - Noon

Once outside, Micheal was completely swarmed by random adults that would rather wait to buy from other adults and kids that had the time and patience to wait in line for it.

Micheal’s heart stands still to the rush of sounds that started filling up past the AirPods in his ears, on top of his thoughts to all the incoming offers being screamed at him. For a long minute, Micheal simply stares in silent disbelief.

To the crowd of about thirty people clustering around Micheal, with many more pushing their way in from all around the New Grove. 

Everybody wanted to get a look at whatever Micheal had come out of the store with and the lucky finders of the ‘Golden Kat’ was promised to be set for life, with it being the only one in the entire world of printed Kat Cat Cards. Micheal hasn't moved yet or even revealed anything inside of the bag of candy bars. He stands very still and holds it tightly with his hand balled up into a locked fist. While the crowd grew in shouts and pushing around him, Micheal at this point can feel a hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Without warning Micheal looks up and sees a tall man standing over him wearing a red hat that read “I Love Black People” written across it.

Unknown Man #1:  Listen. I'll buy it all from you. I'll give you eighty dollars. How about that, eh?

(Micheal emits a sharp terrified shriek behind what he almost did to the harmless privileged man, who could cared more about what was in Michael's bag over him not liking to be touched.)

The tone of a random lady that Micheal couldn’t see in the growing crowd that came after, helping Micheal ignore the resting hand.

Unknown Lady #1: And I'll give you my car for all you have sir! 

Okay? This WOMAN must be crazy?( He thought to himself) Micheal did not understand how or why this was worth more than so much to people?  The flags at the red of all that was wrong with that offer, had sat with Micheals pride in place of what was important to him.

Unknown Man #2: I’d give you nine hundred dollars for that whole bag! ( not knowing what was inside the bag or how many bars he had!)

 Unknown Man #3: You want to sell that bag to me for a free stay at my family hotel, young man? 

(In the mix of all the noise a little girl standing in the chaos asked out loud: If He Was Alright)

Micheal starts grabbing all the bars out the bag and tossed them into the air, turning on all the robotic humans in the court, to defuse a muffled roar of energy that could be more of a problem later. (The goal of all the programming by Elon was to protect both adults and children that posed no threat, to the controlled peace ensured by the government.) 

Micheal walked away from the enormous crowd of people who had gathered into a ball of noise for sugar. The flurry of feet around the front of the KitCat Shop went from flattery and kindness to greedy and uncivilized.

Micheal quits the court finally heading to the Tuesday Service in revealing a dashingly eccentric suit with touches fit for only a king. 

Far away in the distance, from the heart of the closest thing left untouched on earth, attached to the name God.

The church shined in all its glory, standing tall as the twin towers once did and only a few feet away, as the clouds in the sky grew darker to the incoming rain. Micheal removed both AirPods from his ear that was on mute the entire time. Micheal removed the envelope from the KitCat bag, Micheal placed the envelope in his inner pocket before discarding the bag. 

Micheal breathed taking another sip of his warm-cold whiskey coffee, preparing himself to review the body and say his final goodbye at the service.

Act One: The Line Not To Cross

EXT. New Grove - Starbucks

 None of the new arrivals speak?

Still stun by the heat each brought, making it hard for the ac in the coffee shop to compete with the random nobodies appearing to look at each other for some semblance of solace that never comes…

(In the distance Nakisa is all we see, located in a now crowded room due to the time that passed from Micheal leaving minutes ago.)

We see Nakisa in a super-tight shot, up close of a striking woman with tight curls and amber eyes, skin like Pocahontas, with razor-sharp cheekbones that her face decorated with a septum ring that read she may have only been recently stolen from heaven.

( By the lost look for words around her face that was given to Stephen for the first time…)

Stephen worrying over the itch on his neck but fights the striking urge; his skin glistening with sweat from discomfort in hoping he can control what he was failing to not let escape. Tears not far from welling in his eyes as he tries desperately to maintain eye contact with the woman of his forgotten dreams, that he can only recall with her in front of him.

(While the snail moving itch was driving Stephen crazy, nothing mattered except the look on her face he felt obligated to fix.) 

The terror in Nakisa 's eyes was enough for Stephen, Nakisa closes her eyes and exhales; trying to be unaffected less by the voice she just heard that she would never forget. Stephen grew eager waiting longer for a response from Nakisa , that did not feel like it was close coming any time soon. 

Nakisa …? (Saying her name after noticing Nakisa spaced out into a blank stare?)

Naa-Kiisa…? (Stephen repeating her name slower without noticing his tone was disturbing everyone in the coffee shop.) 

Nakisa silent in shock by what she heard, slowly putting the phone down on the table. 

Nakisa …? he said again nervously (attaching eyes around the room onto his offered tone)

Stephen contemplates for just a moment; fighting the urge to comfort Nakisa , but she instead softly rubs her hand against the surface of his hand to let him know she was fine. ( Stephen wasn’t at all convinced that while completely in love with her lie of protection, that often felt like affection to cover his pride of being the MAN Nikisa wanted him to be.)

Nakisa , a beauty in her early 30's, dressed with a taste for answers regardless of all the problems that often came with a little trouble. ( Stephen simply called it control over only the issues that almost put him in danger once before.)

Nakisa stood up emotionless, slowly like a model who only had one bite and was suddenly full after. Lost in thoughts Nakisa starts trying to arrange herself from becoming squirmy on the uncomfortable chair. (Instead Nakisa stands up)

Once up in full capture of a taller, thinner and, amazingly, more groomed version of the women no one in the room could come close to comparing too. Stephen begins drizzling without the spit, quickly standing up to push Nakisa's chair in before his own in a hurry to catch up to her before exiting out of the coffee shop, almost forgetting to pay and tip.

Ext. Outside- New Grove 

Nakisa once outside wearing vertiginously high heels with a conquering walk, she poses unknowingly waiting for the flash of the cameras that weren't around.

( Nor would she ever let them catch her not ready) 

Before kneeling down her eyes and placing hands underneath the cellphone to complete a text in the unkind wondering at the mind of what could play out, within the fresh air that crossed her skin left a chill.

While the air starts becoming cooler to the approaching storm that remained for her to quickly regain her composure and focus. ( Still lost on coming up with some sort of conclusion.)

A DashCar sat waiting out front behind 2 other similar cars as Nakisa pops the door and hops in the backseat, a hologram keyboard suddenly appeared over the glass that we once would talk conversation with the driver through, about our desired location.

(Like many other things that had changed with the robots, that mainly was made and programmed to move in protection of mostly children. You can only hold on to the things that didn’t change with accepting all that was our own punishment for not listening before Zach Sang became mayor of New Jersey and the world got a lot worse from there.)

Nakisa typed the address of the JKS Warehouse into the digital search bar with the distance and price appearing next to the option of pay or canceling the ride.

Nakisa laid her wrist onto a rotating circle that appeared to her left once the micro cam noticed she lifted her arm up to possibly pay?

As the car peels off to the destination away from the coffee shop, Nakisa can see Stephen is exiting the coffee shop with her green bag that had a panda keychain dangling from off the corner of her bag filled with mainly nothing inside of it. 

Once out the ‘New Grove’ court and just a few blocks up, Nakisa spots Micheal standing across the street from the church. ( Betting on him not going inside the church to see for himself, before the final service could be had on a day like no other.)

EXT. Across From The Church - Late Noon

It’s a strange, gloomy, expressionistic sight for Micheal as the pain from the following few exiting the church along the street. Nothing but fire in the faces of all working class depressed individuals , walking around the front steps of church.

(Micheal felt simply his own words brought the upon him.)

The gap of cracked concrete under Micheal shoes filled with shadow like pouring bourbon into a thick shot glass. 

Everyone across the streetis dressed quite nicely outside of the church giving kisses and final hugs before heading home in mourning for Kemi’s lost. The older woman now grown and beautiful wearing her decor hat full of white arranged roses that symbolized her in full purity, innocence, and reverence.

Kemi had a napkin with a younger image of her father printed on the napkin in her hands to catch any extra tears escaping when accepting any extra hug or sad face from a friend or foe who once knew her father. 

The men are in blazer jackets and ties; they’ve used hair tonic; some wearing hats and glasses to hide from looking softer, to all that Micheal watched from across the street. Judgement grew when Ben stepped out of the church.

(Ben still with the clippers, at the highest point of his legacy & has been playing even more limited minutes in the playoffs, dropping from 44.0 in the regular season to 22.5 in the playoffs. In two games so far, he's averaging 3.0 points, 4.5 rebounds, and 2.5 assists on 55% shooting.)

Someone within the church rings the big brass bell with relish, Ben stepping down the church stairs attracted cameras of the heartless social media coverage teams that appeared out of no where surrounding him.

The bell signals all to the start of the final service before the day could be finally over. ( Micheal watched the street clear before he decided to head over into an atmosphere of sadness and short fame.)

Ext. At JKS Warehouse !

Nakisa steps out of the DashCar, slamming the door closed with a ‘thank you’ to the driver who expected more of a tip instead of her rich kind words!

Calm to the silence of a response, before receiving a nod and spinning off, Nakisa wondered how long she would have to wait for him to arrive after the 911 text message was sent to him?

A creaking of the door follows a loud thud as daylight floods the JKS warehouse that wasn’t too far from the L.A store. (JKS stood for “Jorgensen Kachingwe Selection” that was only in three parts of the world. The warehouse that Micheal and Aimee brought on their anniversary in honor to the middle and last name all shared as one. While secretly waiting for the first who creates a child and gives him the middle as the first to lock in history. Mainly so they can see grandkids sooner of course and so the legacy that was being built before the child’s arrival, to an empire that would exist before he (Jorgensen) could turn one years old.

It's clean in contrast to the littered hallway, she hits the wall switch standing at the entrance of light and darkness. (NOTHING!?)

The lights weren't working at the flick, as Nakisa's feet take a couple of steps inside the dark.

(she enters as if she is walking on shattered glass, taking each step as a moment of silence washing over her.)

A fresh pair of JKS ‘Turtle Ooze’ high-heels click loudly on the marble floor of the warehouse hallway; skin bronze to the showing of her perfectly manicured green toes. Matching her green fingernails that held onto her phone that just received an incoming text message?

Nakisa exhales quickly with a feigning frustration, As the viewing of her continuing to walk is only of her legs and feet.

(Before another figure enters the warehouse front door behind her?)

The deeper she walked into the dim room that is immaculate with clothing pieces that are neatly placed & unfolded pieces of denim and silk covering the ground around each workstation. While more of the darkness grows around Nakisa with each step away from the incoming faded doorway light, everything for Nakisa almost starts feeling like a suspense horror scene. ( Even from the windows that poured light into the warehouse.)

While moving further and further into the darkness passing by other rooms less dim than the hallways towards her office space that was muscle memory for Nakisa .

( even in the dark while little light is given to side rooms in the warehouse from sundown.

Once in her office from pretending to be a cat in the dark, Nakisa noticed the cup of a tall hot white chocolate·mocha, that was hotter than lava, had now grown cold like the room. 

Nakisa hits the voice message box that listed the short notices in the messages without having to hit play and listen to it, but read it instead.

The messages listed in order, as she look for anything about ‘Tinashe’ as she skips over messages about skunk lion Manolo's design's, thoughts on Chanel jackets, and details about the new Harry Winston earrings that was customary made for her fittings, but Irv Ravitz himself couldn’t get her on the phone. 

(Only Anahi from Daniels L.A Leather store could get in touch with her, due to the trust they gave each other over the years.)

Nakisa hears something while at her desk, looking over her shoulder, Nakisa didn’t notice the figure walking past the window going around back. Nakisa stands up already, breathing heavily by the unknown feeling of not knowing what was trying to enter her energy of all the fears she had placed on pause after the phone call from earlier. (at the coffee shop) 

(The power turns on suddenly???

Quickly making Nakisa wonder if the backup generators had gone short due to the power outages that were on and off in the transformation of la being the number one electric city in the world.

(Most never question it while others give up complaining on the things that couldn’t be undone or changed once in effect by Elon.)

Out Of The Dark - The man extends his arms? (Scaring Nakisa )

It’s not who she was expecting but Stephen?

(Instead!)

A tall, slender, figure of Stephen stands in front of her, staring strangely back at Nakisa .

Stephen: So you couldn’t tell me you were coming here?

Nakisa : I… - (Stephen cuts her off!)

Stephen: I know, it's okay! (He graciously explained, placing her Green Custom JKS bag on the side of her rotating chair)

Stephen: Do You…? (Ending almost as a question…) 

Nakisa : Yes? ( Unsure what was behind his back?) 

Stephen is holding a beautiful bouquet of flowers. 

Stephen: Delivery for my special someone.( He said with a smile removing the arrangement from behind his back.)

Nakisa : Oh, oh, thank you so much. (puzzled) and entirely grateful, while leaning in to grace him with her love in a the form of a kiss. 

Nakisa: !…do I need to sign anything Nikisa joked as Stephen handed them over with a short final kiss—

(that expressed “Your Welcome” with the words needing to be said out loud.)

Stephen, gruffly handing Nakisa the flowers and abruptly turning away at the sight of a “Shittles” Vol.1 comic book series that had been the colorful Simpsons recreation of underachieved raw comedy with each color falling into a mood and horoscope, making them forever relatable to all that read or feel themselves in one of the candy turnt human colorful pallets.

Stephan grabs the comic off the blue markup of the latest design of JKS Blue Bunny’s. 

Stephen completely forgets the task, goal and responsibility of being an adult in all the colorful pages of unapologetic mis-behaving actions by “Candy Mutants” . 

At his finest while walking off, Nakisa relaxes off his whole vibe that ends with more than enough reasons on why she loved him.

Nakisa watches Stephan walk off into a world of animation as she places the flowers on the table, reaching for the card that she didnt notice into placing the flowers down. 

The card simply reads, “I Never Would Of Thought I Was Gone, Into You Found Me. -Love S.”

Nakisa smiles with her joy turning rotten to the unknown shadowy presents of the unknown figure standing behind her unannounced? 

Who could it be? Nakisa thought if she screamed, would Stephen even hear her in all of his “Shittles” laugher that was bouncing off the walls into the air for all to hear simple joy that many adults didn’t know anymore.

EXT. In Front Of The Church -

The Ring of the soft bells blends with the la pigeons hitting the sky, horses slowly walking by. While Michael was high above the church in the cool blue gloam of twilight, that the sunset ignited on the final service of death. The truth is that the sound hasn’t changed only the picture of what the person left last in one's memory.

This moment is often accompanied by a final farewell, marking the end of the physical connection with the deceased but not the memories or impact they leave behind.

Michael stood at the front of the church, not ready to gaze down on the casket that rested solemnly in the altar chamber. The last of the sun filtered through the stained glass, casting a heavy warm glow on the wooden surface. The stained glass windows cast a kaleidoscope of colors onto the polished wooden pews and the stone floor, creating an ethereal atmosphere of heaven on earth.

Today it was clear to see the world didn’t have respect but for death as the headline of their next paycheck day, the conversation turned to the enigmatic and most misunderstood concept of death. Up the stairs was fast to the cars passing by Micheals ears, his vision above each and every little step he took towards the door was more of the contact.

As Michael pushed open the heavy wooden doors of the church that made no sound, he was immediately enveloped by the serene calmness that filled the sacred space of incoming death and sorrow. The soft murmur of the organ filled the space with a soothing melody that escaped into an echo that reached , its notes weaving through the air like a gentle embrace.

The soft, sun glow of casting warm shadows that seemed to breathe life into the quiet surroundings of everything in the church. It was only given to Micheal’s notice that a sign in list had been left in the waiting room. After closing the front door inside of the church

Michael approached the modest wooden desk situated a few feet from where the air filled with a solemn silence to all the music trying to escape the doors he'll soon have to enter. 

The warm sun glow hit different spots all over the muffled sounds of the dancing shadows playing on the walls. On the desk lay a thick, leather-bound book—the sign-in register for those who had come to pay their respects.

As Michael opened the book, the pages crinkled softly, each one carefully inscribed with the names of those who had visited. The register was an important record, a testament to the lives who had intersected with the deceased in various ways. Michael began to read through the list, his eyes scanning the names with a sense of curiosity intertwined with reverence.

Some names were familiar, evoking memories of past interactions and shared moments. These were friends, family members, and acquaintances who had come to bid farewell. Michael lingered over these entries, feeling a connection to the shared loss that bound them together.

However, scattered among the recognizable names were a few unexpected entries. These signatures piqued Michael's interest, sparking questions about the nature of these relationships.

( Looking for Tinashe's name to appear…!)

As Michael continued to peruse the list, he was struck by the profound weight of each name that represented a story, a unique connection to the person who had passed. The register was more than just a list; it was a tapestry of relationships, woven together by the shared experience of mourning.

Michael closed the book gently, resting his hand on its cover as he took a moment to reflect. This was a safe and sacred space, a place where memories were honored and the ties of community felt strongest. He knew that but had no time, in the days to come, this list would serve as a cherished reminder of the love and respect that had been extended to the departed.

With a deep breath, Michael stepped away from the desk, his heart heavy yet comforted by the knowledge that the deceased he was ready to see had been surrounded by many who cared.

Ext: Warehouse

In the dimly lit warehouse, the air was thick with the scent of freshly unpacked clothing and a hint of dust, filled with rows of clothing racks that finally were given light.

It didn’t change Nakisa not knowing who was standing behind her?

 While Stephan in another row meticulously sorted through designer garments, flipping through pages of Shittles took a second as his fingers kept grazing the luxurious fabrics. Stephan was engrossed in his task, each item he was prepping to be shipped out ahead of time was a potential treasure waiting to be discovered by a Tinashe fan.

Suddenly, a gentle tap on Nakisa's shoulder broke her concentration. Startled, Nakisa spun around to face the unknown figure standing behind her. The dim overhead lights cast shadows across the figure’s face, making it difficult to discern who it was.

As her eyes adjusted, Nakisa noticed the stranger wore a dark hoodie, its hood pulled low over their face, adding an air of mystery. Her heart raced with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. The warehouse was supposed to be empty except for her, Stephan and who she called for the unexpected company made this unsettling and intriguing.

"Who are you?" Nakisa asked, her voice steady despite the rapid beating of her heart. She took a small step back, instinctively clutching a nearby garment rack.

Stephan stopped folding to listen, in case she called him for a hand? 

The figure hesitated for a moment, then slowly reached up to lower their hood. Underneath was a face she vaguely recognized—one that stirred a memory from not so long ago, if he came around more. It was her young brother “Kudzai” with striking eyes that seemed to glow even in the dim light.

(Making Nakisa remember when he and thum came on the first day)

Kudzai : ”Nikisa, what's the 911?" he said with a voice soft but confident. 

Kudzai : You okay? looking like you stepped out of a haunted house…

Kudzai : ”I didn't mean to startle you.

(Nakisa’s mind raced back to the mood of being relaxed and calm)

Nakisa: ”Yes, I remember," Nakisa said with a nod, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. "But why do you dress like a looter?"

Kudzai offered a small, enigmatic smile to Nakisa questioning the whole family did to one another, knowing something else was clearly bothering her. 

Kudzai : Now you know I’m always on the lookout for unique pieces, just trying to put something together. ( Glancing around at the racks of clothing surrounding them, each piece is a canvas for creativity.)

Nakisa: ”That sounds interesting," Nakisa replied, her curiosity piqued. "Let’s talk more about this collaboration."

And so, amidst the silent garments and the avoided question, a new chapter was set to unfold for Nakisa and Kudzai, that wasn’t the 911 call. In the shadows lurking, Stephan returned to the back in the room filled with online orders and Shittles pages waiting for his laughter, once he noticed it was an unexpected ally Nakisa knew.

(Over who was watching & waiting )

Ext: The Final Look At The Altar

Micheal without any more hesitation pushed the door into the chamber of all that was left to the faint scent of incense lingered in the air, creating an atmosphere of solemnity and peace to the passing energy. 

Michael took a deep breath as he stepped into the bustling altar of flashing lights and whirring cameras. The atmosphere was electric, charged with the anticipation of a breaking story. Reporters and crew members hurried around, each focused on their tasks, preparing for the final live broadcast.

The room was a whirlwind of activity. Bright, unforgiving lights casting a stark glow that was illuminating to every corner of the chamber. The news crew, clad in headsets and armed with microphones, moved with precision, like an orchestra tuning up for a performance. Cameras, mounted on tripods, were strategically positioned to capture every angle, every expression.

Despite the chaos, Michael exuded a calm confidence. He was no stranger to the media frenzy, or having navigated similar situations countless times with Tinashe. Yet, each new encounter brought its own set of challenges and opportunities. As Micheal walked further in, heads turned, and a murmur rippled through the crowd. His presence commanded attention, and he knew how to wield it.

The altar of cameras and news crews represents the power and responsibility that comes with this role. Every word spoken, every image broadcasted, has the potential to inform, influence, or ignite change in someone watching. (The media has become a pivotal force in shaping public opinion and disseminating information.)

 Michael's gaze swept across the rows of polished pews, taking in the sparse congregation seated in silent contemplation. It was then that his eyes caught a familiar figure seated near the front door, just before all could head towards the casket that accepted a partially obscured gentle ray of sunlight that streamed through the stained glass windows. 

It was Alex?! 

Alex must have sensed his presence, for he slowly lifted his head and turned to face Michael. Their eyes met, and for a moment, the past and present seemed to converge in the sacred silence between them. Micheal was shocked by the feeling of him being almost a friend from years past, who sat with his head bowed in prayer for Micheal showed up. Alex sat in a pair of Vision Hives, Playa 4 Life 3D jacket full of color, that would fill happiness in all who looked at it. (drawn by Naskia before being made by Daniel.)

  A wave of emotions washed over Michael as he stood frozen in the doorway. Memories of their shared times of laughter and camaraderie. As history flooded his mind—, moments of disagreement and reconciliation reminded him of all the missed time. He had not seen Alex in what felt like a lifetime, yet the sight of him stirred a sense of nostalgia and warmth in Michael's heart.

  Alex had changed the world with how he took his reiki studies deeper into the format of healing from sounds that unlocked the DNA being healed on the inside. Three steps were taken to achieve this, first he took from the constraints, dogma, rules and regulations of Western-style Reiki courses. Getting back to Reiki's original Japanese method of embracing simplicity, flexibility, creativity and intuition at the core.

  Next was to convert all Youtube sounds that weren't live streams before introducing the sounds that corrected DNA cells, repairing & growing new cells faster, increasing brain power to enhance the development of intelligence in the improvement of the IQ through binaural beats to speed up the improved memory. Alex became the master in “Neural Oscillations” sounds and was suitable for people at all Reiki levels, that many or may not be ready to take it one step further: beginners, those who are developing their Reiki, could find a peaceful guide of advice about self-treatment in healing meditations, energy exercises to build the ability of channeling your best self, Alex promised all will discover how to work with embracing the power of intent. Exploring the different distances of healing methods of music as medicine.

  Alex was the first to discover the beauty of Reiki's original Japanese form. Causing a large population of the black culture around the world to extract similar sounds off YouTube. This eventually made YouTube put up a fee to enter the site. ( All to control the unlocking creativity and visualization that helped enhance and ditch all the silly rules and regulations that stifle the practice of what medicine really was in many lineages of doctors being laid off more than before.)

  Unlike Tinashe, Alex was rich and never had to leave his bubble of peace except to travel and give advice to the new up comers and teachers about planning and structuring his courses into their everyday way of living in a similar peaceful stage as he was. Alex knew what to include and how to explain/ describe things in the most powerful way to embrace the incoming change over the fear of not being able to stop once one started. As well as recommendations for creating and supporting all his students and clients that were dealing with learning preferences in evolving the soul.

Spirituality and enhancement into a whole new human experience, was half the offer Alex provided in the transformative roadmap for integrating profound spiritual wisdom that we overlooked in  everyday life. 

 Alex's book would provide practical tools such as journaling and mindfulness exercises aimed at facilitating personal transformation and inner growth.

 Through insightful teachings and practical guidance, Alex was able to empower readers to deepen their spiritual awareness, cultivate mindfulness and achieve emotional balance in their daily routines. Whether you’re new to spirituality or seeking to deepen your practice. Either way Alex book served as a comprehensive guide to navigating life’s challenges with grace and spiritual fulfillment all was seeking in life currently.

 Alex had the world in his hands that the Department Of Health wanted him dead for all eyes that he helped open. Alex didn’t just grab sound off Youtube and write a book but a companion on a journey towards self discovery and a holistic well being before we were to leave earth. It invites readers to embrace spirituality as a pathway to living authentically and finding greater meaning in life while living on earth.

Micheal was proud at everything Alex had become, all that he was doing while looking down at his kicks, Micheal spots a can of mela watermelon water by his sneakers before the pastor that's behind him could tap and ask if Micheal would say a few words.

After agreeing to the pastor's wishes that came from Kemi, Michael approached the podium with his message to all in the room that was clear and concise. He understood the importance of clarity and truth, especially in an age where misinformation could spread as rapidly as wildfire. He spoke with conviction, addressing his audience with sincerity and purpose.

• Michael greeted the audience and acknowledged the significance of the moment, he emphasized the need for unity, transparency, and forward-thinking solutions. Michael closed with a call to action, urging viewers to stay informed and engaged in a loved one's life. (Micheal shuts up as all the cameras go off with the increase of commotion in the room.)

As he stepped away from the podium, the room erupted into a flurry of questions and camera flashes. Michael navigated the sea of journalists with grace, understanding that this was just another step in the complex dance between media and public perception of all real questions that was about to be asked after he was done talking. Michael's words would soon be broadcasted to millions, analyzed and discussed in homes and offices around the world. It was a reminder of the enduring power of the media and the vital role individuals like Michael play in shaping the narrative.

In that moment, amidst the chaos and clamor, Michael had successfully transformed the altar of news crews and cameras into a platform for meaningful discourse.

With a deep breath, Michael quietly made his way down the aisle, passing the reporters asking questions all at once, his footsteps echoing softly in the hushed stillness of the drowning chaos in the church. As he drew nearer Alex for another gentle reunion. 

A gentle smile spread across Alex's handsome face, sparking a silent acknowledgment of their shared history and unspoken understanding with gestures over spoken words. Michael returned the smile with his eyes while moving in the loud crowded room.

The gates of no respect or privacy opens, and a flood of reporters and paparazzi are waiting for us. Flashbulbs click and whirr like locusts. Reporters surrounded Micheal as if he was worth as much as Tinashe Or Alex.

( far from it with them all knowing to not get him upset like Kanye, so they made sure to give him space and move with him over blocking him from passing on.  )

1st Reporter: Micheal Any words on where Tinashe is? 

Micheal: She on Vacation! (sigh)

1st Reporter: Is she still alive? 

Micheal froze by the serious question before stopping to turn to the reporter holding the newspaper that said in bold words.  

October 10, 2035

 The LA 

Newspaper

Everyone wants to know?

WHERE IS TINASHE!?

(Fans show urgent demand for new music… Pictures or just a interview) 

By Daniel Lee

Micheal took a minute before speaking into the microphone 

Micheal: Tinashe is on Vacation working on the new place where she is at currently, and I believe when she is ready, you’ll see her again.

A reporter pushes past with a mic in front of Micheals face

2nd Reporter: (Out of the way, fellas) Is it true that you don’t even know where she is? 

Micheal: I don't have the money to pay for that one to go away, I guess! (The reporters laugh, while he slips his right hand into his pocket before talking again)

Thinking of how to approach the photographers with a calm demeanor. 

Micheal: “I appreciate your interest in my life,” he said softly, “but this is a place of worship, a sanctuary. I kindly ask for your respect and privacy here.”

Micheal: Tinashe is with her MOTHER!

All the cameras went off to Micheals lie as reports left the circle to exit the church and be the first at Aimee house before the others that had to stay and wrap up, the final service would come there next.

The paparazzi, moved by Michael's graceful request, slowly lowered their cameras. The lead photographer of BET, who had been in the business for years, stepped forward. 

Bet Reporter: “We apologize,” he said, sincerity in his voice. “We didn't mean to intrude on the importance of this day for personal information.”

The reporters, witnessing this act of humility and understanding, offered a round of supportive nods. Michael removes his hand from his pocket with steps in hope of returning to his seat, as the church once again enveloped its attendees in peace. 

As the service concluded, a few members of the congregation approached Michael, thanking him for his poise. The photographers, too, expressed gratitude, having learned an important lesson about boundaries and respect. Michael, always gracious, nodded and smiled, knowing that even in the most unexpected situations, kindness and understanding can prevail.

As Micheal made it out of the circle of judgment he slid into the pew beside Alex, they exchanged a quiet nod, a wordless agreement to embrace this moment of connection and rekindle their friendship that been rocky since Alex cut himself off from the world and his family (in order to keep them from being targets).

 As the congregation gathered for the closing moments of the service, the atmosphere was filled with a gentle anticipation. The pastor, standing at the pulpit, announced the final song of the choir with a warmth that resonated throughout the church. The pastor spoke with a reverent tone for all to hear.

Pastor:  “Before we conclude this service, let us join together in listening to the choir’s final song. 

Pastor: May it uplift your spirits and carry the message of hope and love in your hearts everyone.”

The choir, dressed in matching robes, lined up on the center stage behind the casket, everyone stood poised and ready before being given the go to start singing. 

Each member of the choir was eager to share the gift of music with those present. The song they were about to perform was a beloved hymn, known for its soothing melody and profound lyrics.

The Removal Of Sin

As the choir began to sing, their voices blended in perfect harmony, filling the sanctuary with a rich and resonant sound. The music wrapped around the congregation like a comforting embrace, encouraging reflection and gratitude. The paparazzi, now standing respectfully at the back, watched with a newfound appreciation for the sanctity of the space.

This final song held special significance for “The NewBoy”, who was preparing to embark on a new journey.

The music notes served as a farewell blessing, offering him strength and courage as he stepped into the next chapter of his life of making up for the time lost with Alex.

( From all the attention and protection he installed into what the world knew as Tinashe)

When the last notes faded, the pastor concluded the service with a prayer, sending Michael off with the congregation’s heartfelt wishes for success and happiness.

It was a poignant ending, marked by the beauty of the song and the warmth of a community that shared a voice like no other.

Both sat silent In the church, surrounded by the echoes of ancient hymns and the gentle rustle of prayer books, Michael and Alex sat side by side, content in the knowledge that some bonds, no matter how stretched by time and distance, remain unbroken.

Alex: Where is she really ?

Micheal released a  gentle smile, before leaning back in his obsidian throne of the lies only the reporters didn’t know wasn’t true, considering how best to explain such a profound topic.

Micheal: a change from one form of existence to another, is not an end, but rather a continuation of the eternal cycle he explained to Alex. ( Avoiding the question, unsure who may be listening to them.)

Alex: ”Life," he continued, "is like a flame, burning brightly for a time, casting warmth and light. But eventually, the flame must flicker and die. a natural part of the universe's order. It is inescapable for mortals, a doorway they all must pass through like that lie.”

Micheal: nodded (Noticing the fiery eyes wide with fascination from Kemi, heading towards him. (But why?)

Alex: ”But remember," he continued with his voice softening, "lies is something to fear. It is merely a bad transformation. Our souls pass through this realm, where we guide them to their next destination. In this way, death is both an end and a beginning—an opportunity for renewal and growth.”

Micheal started ignoring Alex's teachings to gather his words on what to say to Kemi who is seeing death in a new light today. (not as an ominous end, but as part of a larger tapestry of existence.)

In the echoes of the choir that filled the air with a sense of peace, Michael found himself restless and the congregation was almost wrapped up in the waiting of the pastor's final words. Yet, Michael's mind wandered elsewhere. 

He glanced across the aisle, where he spotted Ray J who looked like a drunk homeless man in a cheap suit next to Brandy, as the familiar face of Kemi that always seemed to exude warmth with kindness came closer.

Unable to shake off the urge of what he wanted to avoid, Michael quietly stood up from his seat. He navigated through the rows of pews, each step a silent apology to those around him for the distraction. Before Kemi reached him, she looked at Micheal with a hint of surprise dancing in her eyes.

Kemi: Michael, she whispered, her voice barely above a soft hum. 

Kemi: What brings you here?(reaching for a hug)

Michael offered a sheepish smile in the embrace between them two, aware of the setting and the curious glances from a few nearby attendees that was recording everything they did.

Micheal: I just wanted to say hello, he replied gently, his tone respectful of the sacred space they occupied.

Kemi's expression softened, and she leaned slightly forward, ensuring their conversation remained discreet.

Kemi: It's been a while since we've had a chance to talk! ( she admitted, her eyes reflecting the stained glass light.)

Micheal: Yes, it has," Michael agreed, nodding. 

Micheal: How are you? (walking to the casket)

Their whispered exchange was filled with the genuine interest of two people reconnecting, each word carefully chosen to respect the ambiance of their surroundings.

Michael learned that Kemi had been busy with her studies, while Kemi discovered Michael's recent shared travels and adventures.

As their conversation reached a natural pause, Michael realized it was time to return to his seat before he had to view the body of a face he didn’t wanna remember this way in his mind. 

Micheal: We should catch up properly sometime," he suggested, a hopeful note in his voice of stopping the walk to hopefully turn back.

Kemi: ”I'd like that! ( a promise in her eyes) she replied softly.

With a final nod, Michael retraced his steps back to his seat, mindful of the ongoing service.

The brief interaction had been a reminder of the connections that enrich life, even in the most unexpected moments and places.

Michael offered his arm to Kemi, who accepted it with a small, grateful smile. Together, they walked slowly toward the front away from where the casket stood as a silent sentinel.

Micheal: you okay? Michael asked gently, his voice barely above a whisper, respecting the reverence of the moment.

Kemi nodded, through her eyes betrayed the turmoil within. 

Kemi: I just can’t believe this is happening. It all feels so surreal.

Micheal: I know. It’s hard to say goodbye. But remember, you’re not alone. We’re all here for you. (Michael gave her arm a reassuring squeeze)

Kemi took a deep breath, glancing around at the familiar faces of friends and family, each sharing in her grief. 

Kemi: Thank you, Michael. It means so much to have your support.

As they got further from the casket, Kemi paused letting Micheal arm to go look at her father one last time.

Kemi eyes lingering over the polished wood. She took a moment to gather her thoughts, the memories flooding back in a vivid rush.

The laughter, the love, the moments that now felt like treasures.

Kemi: I wish I could have one more day,” she whispered, her voice choked with unshed tears as she fell to the ground, dramatic but not Oscar worthy as Micheal turns around to help comfort her.

Michael stood by her side, offering silent solidarity in her moment of vulnerability.

Finally, Kemi allowed herself to cry it all out, the tears flowing freely as she reached out to touch the casket. It was a cathartic release, the culmination of days filled with sorrow and resilience.

After Micheals help and a few moments, Kemi composed herself, wiping her tears with a gentle hand. She nodded to the funeral director, signaling that she was ready.

The director approached quietly, beginning the process of closing the casket.

Michael stayed by Kemi’s side, his presence became a comforting anchor. As the casket lid slowly descended, Kemi whispered a final, heartfelt goodbye, a promise to keep the memories alive in her heart.

The closure was both literal and symbolic, marking the end of a chapter but also the beginning of the healing journey.

 As they turned to leave away from the casket a second time, Kemi felt a sense of peace, knowing she had honored the one she loved with a proper farewell.

Michael's heart ached with the weight of unspoken words and memories shared before never talking to Earl "Ben J" Benjamin again for what he spoke about Tinashe.

 As he looked at Ben's face, he couldn't help but recall their countless adventures, laughter, and camaraderie. Ben had been a guiding light, a steadfast friend through thick and thin in many ways when he returned and stopped the world all over again.

Michael's mind wandered to the many moments they had experienced together—camping trips under starry skies, late-night conversations that stretched into the early hours, and the way Ben had always managed to find joy in the simplest of things.

He regretted Ben being in a casket over others, but he, like others that knew him, knew his mouth would have caught up to him sooner than later and 2 days before his birthday was the day as the body of Ben, a dear friend whose passion and presence would be sorely missed.

( while others cry at the paychecks he brought in, going cold like how Micheal felt when he looked back at where Alex sat and he was Gone!)

Micheal: Fuck (He said almost out loud for all in the church to hear!)

Alex's footsteps echoed softly in the lit hallway of the old church.

The air was cool and still, carrying with it the faint, lingering scent of incense that could not push out the smell of death.

He paused for a moment, holding an empty mela watermelon water can, and tossed it casually into the trash bin. 

Just as Alex turned to leave, a peculiar light emanated from under the door at the end of the hallway before he could exit the church from what caught his eye.

The mysterious light was unusual, a soft, warm glow that seemed almost inviting with a stink raw hot caramel butter smell . It was not the harsh fluorescent lighting of the church's common areas, nor was it the sad and gentle sanctuary one felt before entering a room. 

Instead, it was something different, something that seemed to pulse gently, beckoning him to investigate.

Alex hesitated, a mix of curiosity and caution swirling within him.

The church was supposed to be empty at this hour of the final service; Alex had come across the room full of the dropped off supplies for the food that had sat for a while, waiting for everyone left in the final service to come eat away at their feelings before leaving to cry again the next day at home. 

Yet, here was this inexplicable glow stretching across the floor, urging him to explore further.

His mind raced with possibilities walking away from the room full of food he had stopped at for a moment. 

Had someone left a light on, or was there something more mysterious at play?

Caught between the impulse to discover and the whisper of doubt, Alex stood frozen for a moment. The light cast intriguing shadows that danced at the edges of the door, as if trying to tell a story. 

(Alex took a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever lay beyond.) 

Finally, curiosity won over caution…

  Alex approached the door cautiously, his heart pounding with anticipation for whatever awaited him on the other side that was unknown, but he felt an undeniable pull, a need to uncover the source of this enigmatic glow. 

With a steady hand, Alex reached for the doorknob, ready to unravel the mystery that lay beyond the door.

  Alex cautiously stepped into the candle lit room, Alex was immediately struck by the atmosphere of both awe and decay that permeated the space. This was the fabled Room of the Holy Grail, a place that many had sought but few had found. However, the scene before him was not what the legends had promised.

The room, instead of being a vibrant sanctuary, was filled with ashes and an unmistakable, unpleasant odor. The floor was covered in a thick layer of sticky piss, hinting at the countless years that had passed since anyone had last tread in her to mop or leave a shoe print. 

In the corners, clusters of ashes and melted candles from long-forgotten fires, of the stories lost to time. The air was heavy, and the faint light for Alex's flickered against the church walls, vibrating eerie shadows that danced like ancient spirits.

Despite the unexpected state of the room, Alex's determination did not waver. He had come too far, reading the words off the sign on the wall above the holy grail. As the ashes of T. D. Jakes floated around in the holy grail overflowing with random pee. Alex closed the door, unable to inhale the smell any longer than what he has already.

As Alex made his way back to the entrance, Alex knew that he carried with him something far greater than a legendary artifact of LOVE, but a deeper understanding of himself and the enduring power of the human spirit he had a greater link than others that go to church every Sunday.

The moment was both solemn and liberating as Alex pushed open the heavy doors of the church. The hinges seemed to echo the sound of the internal struggle that had been brewing for months to be fixed. Stepping out into the afternoon being 2 hours from night, Alex felt a mix of emotion in all his relief, uncertainty, and a touch of sadness. 

Leaving the church was not a decision Alex had taken lightly. Waiting for Micheal the entire time  in thought of the church being a cornerstone of their life for as long as they could remember. It was a place of community, tradition, and comfort.

However, over time, Alex found himself questioning the beliefs that had once felt so absolute. The teachings that had been the foundation of their faith no longer resonated with his evolving worldview.

In the months leading up to this moment, Alex engaged in numerous conversations with friends and mentors. Some were supportive, understanding that personal growth often leads to new paths. Others were confused or even upset, fearing that Alex was abandoning an integral part of his identity. Through these discussions, Alex learned the value of listening and the importance of articulating his own beliefs clearly and respectfully.

( all before he proved the sound was safe to remove a headache over pills.)

As Alex stood outside the church, remembering when he realized that leaving was not an end but a beginning. It was a chance to explore spirituality on his own terms, to seek out new experiences and insights. The world was vast, filled with diverse beliefs and practices that could offer new perspectives and wisdom.

Embracing the long journey that was only half of what Alex did and faced before proving his additional studies in Brazil on “Beethoven's 5th Symphony” being able to destroy cancer cells without affecting healthy cells.

(Alex took a deep breath, feeling a sense of empowerment.)

 Alex now understood that faith is deeply personal and that it is okay to question, to seek, and to change. With a final glance at the church, Alex turnt off the block once down the stairs of the church, able to walk away from where he sat most of his day. Finally released from jury duty and ready to embrace the journey ahead with an open heart and an open mind that many didn’t care to understand since all they needed was money to hear him become google.

Ext: Warehouse- Heated Debate

The air inside the warehouse was heated with theories to unanswered questions with tension as Nakisa and Kudzai stood facing each other, their voices echoing off the high ceilings.

 The rows of shelves, stacked with boxes and equipment, bore silent witness to their escalating argument. 

 Stephan stood a few feet away, his presence a silent testament to the unfolding drama, the debate had ignited over a disagreement about where Tinashe was at.

Nakisa, with her meticulous attention to puzzle pieces that didn’t fit.

Nakisa: Kudzai, we have to worry! (Nakisa argued passionately, her eyes aflame with conviction.)

 Kudzai: ”The system is designed to minimize human error, and it’s backed by data that shows significant improvements in similar warehouses. (He said trying to change the subject back to one of the topics from earlier.) 

Kudzai, on the other hand, was wary of changing days without a call or text from Tinashe.

Kudzai: Look, Nakisa," Kudzai replied, his voice firm but not unkind.

Kudzai: Maybe we like the others just was to much, like the phone call that got you acting TO MUCH, maybe Nakisa, just maybe Tinashe wants to be alone somewhere she can just be ‘Normal’ and unbothered by a want for music, a need of an autograph or a rushed photo, media training countlessly hours on what to say and not say-

Nakisa: -OK! Enough Kudzai

Kudzai: remember why our life is so much better than others, NOW after 4 years of not a word from her? You ever wondered if this was all apart of her plan? Or you just like the others only wanting her to fill the void y’all can't without her around.

Stephan stands in all of his silent observations towards the two people he love and cares about, Stephan known for his ability to mediate conflicts, chose to remain silent for the moment.

His eyes moved between the two, absorbing their arguments, his mind undoubtedly weighing the pros and cons. He understood the importance of allowing both parties to express their viewpoints fully before stepping in with his seasoned perspective.

As the debate continued, both Nakisa and Kudzai began to see the merit in each other's points. Nakisa acknowledged the potential risks of not looking for her like Kudzai wanted her to stop doing it, and recognized the need and beneficial gain over everyone else wanting Tinashe back for selfish reasons.

Stephan finally spoke, his calm voice slicing through the remnants of tension. 



Stephan: Both of you have valid points, Let’s work together to implement a plan on what we feel should be done next in hopes of finding her or at least knowing where she is. We can gather data and feedback before making a final decision on the next moves that will fit everyone's schedule.

With Stephan's words, the tension eased, and the three colleagues began discussing the logistics of the truth, their voices now harmonious in pursuit of a common goal. 

The warehouse, once echoing with discord, now resonated with the promise of collaboration.

It's been a while since anyone has heard from Tinashe, and the silence has sparked concern among her family, friends and fans. Two of her closest companions, Nakisa and Kudzai, have been engrossed in a heated debate about her whereabouts. Their differing theories reflect their distinct perspectives and personalities with nothing but love and concern behind the misunderstanding mix of words.

Nakisa, ever the optimist and a believer in the adventurous spirit, argues that Tinashe might have embarked on an impromptu journey. She supports her theory with several points:

• Nakisa : Tinashe has always been passionate about exploring new places. In the past, she’s taken spontaneous trips, often leaving without much notice.

• Nakisa: Tinashe may have chosen to disconnect from the digital world to reconnect with herself and nature. This wouldn’t be the first time she’s gone off the grid in search of tranquility.

• Nakisa: Tinashe might be seeking personal growth or inspiration, perhaps working on a new project or idea that requires solitude.

Kudzai, on the other hand, is more pragmatic and cautious. He presents a different perspective, expressing concern for Tinashe's well-being:

• Uncharacteristic Silence: Kudzai points out that despite her love for adventure, Tinashe usually keeps her friends informed of her whereabouts. This prolonged silence is out of character for her.

• Health Concerns: He raises the possibility that Tinashe could be dealing with health issues that have kept her from communicating, suggesting that she should reach out to her family or mutual friends.

• Local Troubles: Kudzai speculates that Tinashe might be facing unexpected local troubles, such as being caught up in a situation beyond her control.

Despite their differing views, both Nakisa and Kudzai agree on one thing: Tinashe's safety and well-being are paramount. They decide to take action together:

• Contacting Mutual Friends: They compile a list of mutual friends and start reaching out to see if anyone has had recent contact with Tinashe.

• Checking Social Media: They look through Tinashe’s social media accounts for any clues or recent activity that might provide insight into her whereabouts.

• Planning a Search: If I don't find any leads, I agree to organize a small search party to visit places Tinashe frequents and check with local authorities if necessary.

While Nakisa and Kudzai debate and highlight their contrasting viewpoints, it also showcases their deep care for Tinashe. By combining their efforts and resources, they hope to uncover clues that will lead them to their missing sister. The journey to find Tinashe is not just about locating her physical presence but also about understanding her needs and supporting her through whatever she might be experiencing.

The Unknown watched all three talk about Tinashe !

Nakisa stood alone, watching as Stephan and kudzu made a way towards the exit. The clanging of their footsteps echoed off the metal walls, a stark reminder of their sudden solitude.

Nakisa; Bye, Stephan,I Love You" Nakisa called out, her voice tinged with a mix of disappointment and understanding.

Stephan paused briefly at the doorway, turning to give her a kiss before disappearing into the shadows beyond the car. His departure left an unsettling silence behind, one that seemed to amplify the vast emptiness of the warehouse. Now with Stephan gone, Nakisa felt a wave of apprehension wash over her. The warehouse, with its towering shelves and labyrinthine aisles, now seemed like a daunting maze Nakisa had to navigate alone. However, Nakisa took a deep breath, reminding herself of the purpose that had brought her here. It was not her resourceful and resilient qualities that had served her well in the past.

This was just another challenge, one she was fully capable of overcoming.

• Nakisa kept her mind on the task at hand, refusing to let her thoughts wander to Stephan's unexpected departure to go with Kudzai.

As Nakisa ventured deeper into the warehouse for more work, she came across a  discovered hidden corner of overlooked items, each telling a story of its own. 

Nakisa  began to see the warehouse not as a place of isolation, but as a realm of possibilities.

Despite the challenge of being left alone, Naksa couldn't help but reflect on Stephan.

Their shared experiences had taught her much about trust and loyalty. Even in his absence, Stephan's influence lingered, motivating her to push forward.

Nakisa in the warehouse was just beginning, a testament to her independence and inner strength.

With each step, Always show details that she could navigate whatever in the eerie silence pressing heavily around her. 

The faint hum only added to the ominous atmosphere.

She clutched her phone tightly, the last message she received still glowing ominously on the screen: 

"Meet me here. Alone.”

The message had been sent from an unknown number, complete with a cryptic promise of revealing the truth she had been seeking. Despite her better judgment, curiosity had gotten the better of her, leading her to the warehouse location. Her instincts screamed caution, yet the allure for answers pushed her forward.

The warehouse itself was a relic of the past, once bustling with activity, now forgotten and neglected. Stacks of dusty crates lined the walls that haven’t been touched. Nakisa footsteps echoed, each step amplifying the loneliness of the vast space.

Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadows.

It was the person who had texted her, their face obscured by a hood.

They moved with a calculated calm gracefully speed, their presence both unnerving and compelling.

Nakisa: ”Why did you want to meet here?" Nakisa demanded to know, her voice betraying her nerves?

Text Man: The stranger chuckled softly, the sound bouncing off the walls. 

Text Man: Because here, we’re off the grid, No one can listen in,  No one can cut the lines off again.

Nakisa: Cut the lines off again ? (she repeated to herself, questioning herself more: was he talking about a series of mysterious power outages plaguing the city?) 

Nakisa's heart raced as she thought about the implications of their words.

She had been chasing a lead about Tinashe and this person seemed to hold the key.

The stranger gestured for her to follow, leading her deeper into the warehouse.

They stopped in front of a hidden door, revealing a concealed room filled with boxes and complex equipment.

Monitors blinked to life, displaying graphs and data Nikisa couldn't fully comprehend.

Text Man: You’re looking at the source the stranger explained. "Someone's been manipulating the city's power grid, and I can prove it."

Nakisa realized she stood at a crossroads!?

She could walk away, return to safety, or delve deeper, risking everything for the truth.

Her resolve hardened, She knew she couldn't turn back now.

Nakisa: Show me, she said with determination in her eyes.

The stranger nodded, and together, they began to uncover the layers of deception threatening to engulf their city

Nakisa stood quietly, her presence illuminating the space around her. Despite the lack of light, there was an undeniable beauty in the way she carried herself, a serene elegance that seemed to defy the gloom.

Her graceful stance and the gentle way she moved through the room created an ethereal atmosphere, as if she belonged to the shadows themselves. Her eyes, bright and curious, seemed to capture the faintest glimmers of light, reflecting a quiet strength of confidence everyone saw.

The dark warehouse, with its rough, industrial lines and stark, empty spaces, served as a striking contrast to Nakisa's delicate features and soft demeanor.

This juxtaposition only enhanced her beauty, drawing attention to her every move and gesture. The warehouse, once a place of bustling activity, now stood silent, its emptiness filled with the quiet power of her presence.

In her ability to transform the ordinary into something extraordinary was one of her most remarkable traits. In the stillness of the warehouse, she found beauty where others might see only decay and desolation.

Her perspective, full of wonder and appreciation for the world around her, was contagious, inviting others to see beyond the surface and discover the hidden allure in unexpected places she saw as beautiful.

Her beauty in the dark warehouse was not merely a matter of physical appearance; it was a reflection of her inner light and the unique way she interacted with her surroundings.

Like in the quiet, shadowy corners of the warehouse, where she revealed a world of charm and art, reminding us all of the power of perception and the magic of finding beauty in the most unlikely of settings.

Nakisa's heartbeat quickened as she stood next to the man whose face she couldn’t see at all, The air was thick with dust in the room she didn’t know much about, as the echo of her footsteps reverberated through the cavernous space. 

 As her eyes adjusted to the shadows, revealing stacks of forgotten crates and a tangle of ancient machinery. 

Nakisa only could think about how the messages had been both thrilling and terrifying, filled with riddles and references only someone close to her would understand. But she couldn't fathom who it could be.

Finally thinking back to herself, from how she first saw him—a figure standing in the middle of the clearing, bathed in the pale moonlight streaming through a broken window. He was tall, his face obscured by the shadows, and the silence between them was almost deafening.

Text Man: he spoke softly, his voice a blend of nostalgia and regret.

("It's been a long time.")

She was taken back, memories flooding back with each passing second. 

Nakisa "Why did you reach out like this? Why all the secrets?"

He sighed, running a hand through his pockets. 

Text Man: ”I needed to see you, to explain everything. I didn't know how else to get your attention.”

Their conversation unfolded, each revelation peeling back layers of misunderstanding and unanswered questions. As they talked, Nakisa felt the tension slowly dissipating, replaced by an understanding of the choices and circumstances that had led them both here.

As Nakisa cautiously ventured deeper into the warehouse, Nakisa's eyes caught sight of a shadowy figure lurking in the corner.

The figure stepped forward, revealing himself as a tall man with a rugged appearance. His face was partially obscured by the low light from the flashing computer screens, but his presence was commanding.

Text Man: Nakisa the man spoke in a gravelly voice, "I've been expecting you."

Startled yet intrigued, 

Nakisa took a tentative step closer. "Who are you?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. (The man offered a cryptic smile.) 

Text Man: That’s not important right now. What matters is what I have for you."

Without another word, the man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a crumpled envelope. He handed it to Nakisa with a nod, as if entrusting her with a secret of great importance.

Nakisa hesitated for a moment before accepting the envelope. She quickly examined it, noting the unfamiliar handwriting scrawled across the front. Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened it, revealing a single piece of paper inside.

The letter was brief, but its message was clear. It contained an address, a location where Tinashe was rumored to be hiding. Sarah's heart leapt with a mixture of hope and anxiety. She had been searching for Tinashe for what felt like an eternity, and now, she was closer than ever to finding her.

Nakisa: Why are you giving me this?" (She questioned, looking up at the mysterious man.)

His eyes met hers, and for a moment, Nakisa thought she saw empathy. 

Text Man: Let’s just say it's in both our interests that you find her! (he replied enigmatically.)

Now with the envelope clutched tightly in her hand, Nakisa nodded in gratitude. She knew this was a pivotal moment in her journey. The path ahead was uncertain, and yet, she felt a renewed sense of determination coursing through her veins.

As she turned to leave, the man's voice echoed once more in the vast emptiness of the warehouse. 

Text Man: Be careful, Not everything is as it seems."

The words lingering in the air, Before she could step back into the world outside, the address burning a hole in her pocket. Clueless of the incoming danger that didn’t change her being ready to face whatever lay ahead, driven by the hope of reuniting with Tinashe and uncovering the truth.

Int: Kudzai & Stephan (30 minutes after they left) 

Stephan hoped his final glance around the dimly lit warehouse one last time was enough before leaving Nakisa alone, ensuring everything was in order before he left.

The echoes of his footsteps faded as he approached the car door. After a deep breath, he pushed it open and stepped into the crisp car air.

The sun dipped below the horizon, painted clouds with hues of orange and pink across the sky in the glow of the moon.

As Stephan sat in the passenger seat of the car, his eyes catching the vibrant colors peeking out from an old, worn box in the back of the car.

It was a box he hadn't seen in, filled with memories that instantly transported him back to his childhood.

The box was crammed with comic books, each cover a portal to another world, brimming with heroes and adventures.

The box was a treasure trove of tales, each comic a beloved companion from Stephan's younger days that didn’t have a Tinashe image as the cover.

As he reached out and gently lifted a comic from the box, a drizzle of nostalgia from “Shittles” Vol.2 washed over him.

The pages, though slightly yellowed with age, held stories that were as vivid in his memory as they were during those long summers.

While Stephan flipping through the pages, Stephan couldn't help but smile at the familiar illustrations and the dialogue bubbles that once filled his imagination with wonder.

Each comic was a chapter of his life, a reminder of simpler times when the biggest worry of whether the hero would triumph over the villain.These comics were more than just stories; they were relics of a shared legacy.

Stephan remembered trading issues with friends in the neighborhood, eagerly discussing plot twists and character developments. It was a time when friendships were forged over shared excitement and the collective joy of storytelling.

Now, as an adult, Stephan appreciated these comics in a different light.

They were not just tales of capes and superpowers; they were lessons in bravery, resilience, and the complexity of good versus evil.

They were a testament to the power of imagination and the importance of storytelling in shaping who we are.

Stephan carefully placed the comic back into the box, a gentle smile playing on his lips.

The box of comic books was more than a collection; it was a bridge to the past, a reminder of cherished memories and the enduring magic of stories that continue to inspire, even years later.

In a world where technology and nostalgia collide, there's nothing quite as intriguing as a box full of comic books nestled in the backseat of a high-tech robot car.

This peculiar combination of past and future sparks the imagination and invites us to explore the stories and possibilities contained within.

Making the comic book a cherished form of entertainment, capturing the imaginations of readers with tales of superheroes, adventurous escapades, and fantastical worlds. As Stephan delves into the box, each comic offers a glimpse into a different era of the Golden Age to the gritty realism of modern graphic novels.

This collection is not just a stack of paper; it's a journey through time, a chronicle of evolving art and storytelling.

Contrasting with the vintage charm of the comic books, the robot car represents the pinnacle of modern innovation.

Equipped with artificial intelligence, it navigates roads with precision and efficiency, offering a glimpse into a future where technology seamlessly integrates into our daily lives.

This intelligent vehicle ensures a smooth ride, giving passengers the freedom to lose themselves in the pages of their comics without worrying about traffic or navigation.

The box of comic books and the robot car creates a unique narrative.

It's a testament to the enduring appeal while the car epitomizes the future, the comics are a reminder of the timeless nature of creativity and imagination.

Together, they offer a rich tapestry of experiences, merging the thrill of futuristic technology with the comforting nostalgia of beloved stories.

As the robot car glides silently down the road, the passenger eagerly dive into the comics, sharing his favorite stories and characters.

Each tale is a conversation starter, a bridge that connects different generations and backgrounds. Whether it's discussing the moral dilemmas faced by superheroes or laughing at the antics of beloved characters, these stories foster connection and understanding for Stephan.

In the fast-paced world of today, it's easy to get swept away by the latest technological advancements. However, the box of comic books in the robot car serves as a gentle reminder that the past holds treasures worth cherishing.

By embracing both the past and the future, we can create a richer, more inclusive narrative that celebrates the best of both worlds.

Settling into the driver’s seat, Kudzai took a moment to appreciate the serenity of the moment.

Kudzai inserted the key into the ignition, and the engine purred to life.

Reaching into the center console, he retrieved a well-worn CD case.

This particular CD was a collection of songs that held sentimental value, perfect for the drive ahead.

As the car rolled smoothly onto the road, Kudzai slid the CD into the player. The familiar strains of the first track filled the car, enveloping him in a comforting embrace of melody and rhythm. The music was a blend of upbeat tempos and soothing ballads, each track a reminder of different times and places.

The drive was pleasant, the tunes providing a perfect soundtrack to the unfolding scenery. Tall trees lined the road, their branches swaying gently in the evening breeze.

Kudzai tapped his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat, his thoughts drifting to the conversation that awaited him with Stephan.

The road stretched out before him, but with the music as his companion, Stephan felt nothing but anticipation for the reunion with his friend.

This drive, marked by familiar melodies and the promise of rekindled friendship, was just the beginning of a night to remember before all the fast food.

The winding road Kudzai and Stephan cruised down, the highway in Stephan's sleek, nightmare sedan. The windows were rolled down, letting the cool breeze tousle their hair, while the car stereo boomed with energetic beats and catchy lyrics.

Kudzai had spent countless hours curating the perfect playlist for moments like these—songs that made them feel invincible, as if the world was theirs to conquer.

There was something magical about the mix of hip-hop, pop, and a touch of rock that got their hearts racing and heads nodding to the rhythm.

The Soundtrack of Their Friendship

1. "Cha Cha - Who Makes It Hotter Live Is This: The upbeat anthem that always got them pumped.

2. “Sky Is The Limit: A guaranteed mood booster with its infectious groove.

3. “YG - Aim Me: The iconic riff that made them feel like rockstars.

4. " - Someone Is Me: A blend of R&B and alternative, perfect for cruising.

5. - TRIPSTAR Its retro vibe gave their ride a touch of nostalgia.

As they drove, the two friends exchanged glances peppered with laughter, knowing they were creating memories that would last a lifetime.

With each beat drop, they bounced in their seats, singing along at the top of their lungs.

Their voices melded with the music, becoming one with the soundtrack that defined their youthful adventures.

There was an unspoken understanding between Kudzai and Stephan. An appreciation for the simple joys of life.

Whether it was the thrill of the open road or the shared enthusiasm for their favorite tunes, these moments were precious.

The music gave them confidence more than a feeling that they were indeed the coolest duo on the road.

Kudzai and Stephan knew that the journey was far from over for Tinashe.

They were bound by their love for music and the freedom it brought them together, they would continue to chase sunsets, soundtracked by the songs that made them feel alive.

A silent acknowledgment of the bond that the music had strengthened. It wasn't just about the song or the dance; it was about the shared memory they were creating, one that would linger long after the music faded.

In the end, it wasn't just the music that made them feel cooler. It was the connection, the freedom, and the joy that came with it—a reminder of the power music could have in friendship and the magic of the moment.

There's something undeniably magical about driving down the open road, windows down, and music blasting through the speakers. As each song changes, it creates a new atmosphere within the car, transforming the journey into a lively musical adventure.

Whether you're on a solo drive or sharing the ride with friends, a well-curated playlist can make all the difference.

The right mix of songs can lift spirits, evoke nostalgia, or simply set the perfect mood for the journey ahead. From upbeat pop hits to soothing acoustic tracks, each song brings its own flavor to the mix.

As the music pulses through the car, it's hard not to get caught up in the rhythm.

Kudzai finds himself drumming on the steering wheel, Stephan tapping his foot to the beat, singing along at the top of his lungs.

(Hardly knowing all the words, while trying to guess some of them)

It's as if the car itself becomes an impromptu dance floor, with each passenger grooving to their own beat.

These musical moments on the road often become cherished memories. A particular song might remind Kudzai of a summer road trip with a girl or a late-night drive under the stars. Each song sparked a short conversation, a laugh, or a shared moment of reflection between the two.

Music is the universal language that transcends borders and cultures, and in the confines of a car, it brings people together a lot faster than a random cup of coffee. Regardless of taste or genre, the shared experience of enjoying music while driving creates a bond among passengers that can enhance any journey.

So n consider the power of music to enhance your drive.

Let the songs change and the rhythm guide you, like Stephan and Kudzai did turning an ordinary trip into an extraordinary experience.

The tracks spun that seemed to electrify the air, each resonating with the rhythm of both their hearts.

Listening to music while driving can transform a mundane journey into a delightful experience. Whether you're on a long road trip or a quick errand, the right soundtrack can make all the difference.

The music at this time was exhilarating, and Kudzai, caught up in the moment, failed to notice the traffic light turning from yellow to red.

Before either of them realized it, Kudzai had driven through the red light.

The sudden blare of a car horn snapped them both back to reality.

Stephan's heart pounded in his chest as he quickly glanced in all directions, ensuring they hadn’t caused an accident.

Thankfully, the intersection was clear, and no harm had been done, but the experience left them both shaken.

After the initial shock wore off, Stephan pulled over to the side of the road.

He turned down the music and took a deep breath!

Kudzai, understanding the gravity of what had just happened, reassured Stephan that everyone makes mistakes.

However, it was a stark reminder of the importance of staying alert and focused on the road at all times.

The incident became a turning point for Kudzai & Stephan!?

Both realized that while enjoying music is a delightful part of driving, it should never compromise safety.

From this day forward, Kudzai made a conscious effort to keep the volume at a reasonable level and to pay closer attention to his surroundings.

Stephan and Kudzai often reflected on that day as a valuable lesson in responsible driving.

They both understood that distractions can come in many forms, whether it's music, conversations, or even daydreaming.

It was a reminder that driving requires full attention and respect for traffic rules to ensure the safety of everyone on the road.

In the end, the incident strengthened their friendship and made them more conscientious drivers, always advocating for safety over entertainment.

End of Act One

Chapter 2: Loose Rope

Micheal, driving in his burnt suit of lost words turnt depression, that he couldn’t wait to escape. He paws at the stick, shifting gears. Determined.

He cranks the wheel of the Mustang, downshifts, passing other cars off the highway, seeing all the L.A holes before they open over his tires.

All sound begins to fade.

Soon!

Trees and cars blur past Micheal’s left-view like mist.

Micheal could hear nothing but the whistling of Bel-Air wind and a little ring to it all.

It was not long before pulling up in his Mustang across the quiet street before approaching the unmanned gate, at the bottom of the Mariee family polished driveway.

Micheal pulls up to the gate and gets out of his car. exiting the car like a blade runner in a suit with constant vigilance and a heightened awareness similar to the wolverine.

Micheal had a curious sense of him being watched, a kind of prickling on the back of his neck.

It is his genius and his burden of never having complete peace outside of what P.J would allow back home.

Micheal: Damn! ( Remembering P.J will have to eat soon, He thought while pushes a button on the intercom box at the side of the gate. )

A MAN'S VOICE CRACKLES out of the BOX. (The outer transmission is terrible in return to Micheal’s ears!)

BUZZ! (Gate Unlocks)

Micheal grabs a bar of the gate and pulls, the whole gate rattles to being pulled by him.

Micheal gets back in his Mustang over waiting for the gate to swing arthritically open!

EXT. MARIEE’S ESTATE - DRIVEWAY

As the black butterfly Mustang moves up the winding drive through heavily landscaped grounds. Plenty of potential hiding places of all the flowers mixed in with the heavy vegetation and the rising grounds beyond. The mansion was at the top of the hill.

The grounds behind the mansion fall away.

The mansion is huge, compared to the circular driveway. On and on it goes. Micheal drives PAST the garage area where Jold, the chauffeur, is polishing the mascot on the limousine and the several other cars. One of his arms is bandaged for all the days of being out with Asheley, dealing with reporters and fans of Tinashe looking for answers. Jold peers at Micheal, puts down his cloth and walks toward the entrance where Micheal is parking. Micheal gets out, looking around before Jold could get close enough to be heard. A cosmetics truck is parked nearby, with two men unloading equipment from it.

Jold: Can I help you?

Micheal: Guessing you are the man on the intercom?

Jold: No Sir But Again, Can I help you?

Micheal: My name is Kachingwe. I have an appointment with Mr. Mariee.

Jold: Oh. You! And that was arranged by...?

Micheal: Mr. Mariee! (confused on his free response over professional)

Jold: Go right ahead, Pointing to the door with the cloth in his hand.

Micheal: What happened to your arm?

Jold: (looking at his arm)

Micheal: Your Daughters Fans! (Jold goes back to wiping down the limousine)

Micheals RINGS the DOORBELL, although the door is not shut.

Cynthia, a fifty year housekeeper, appears.

A man in coveralls comes out past her, carrying a wooden box. Micheal Kachingwe, to see Mr. Mariee.

Cynthia: Oh…Come in, please!

INT. Mariee MANSION

Micheal steps into the foyer with Cynthia. She is a warm, with all the matronly of a woman who does a fine job running the house without standing on custom thoughts.

Cynthia: I'll tell you quite honest, Mr. Kachingwe, (She said smiling)

Cynthia: I don't know where Mr. Mariee is but ill let him know you here!

Micheal: Where would he'd be?

Micheal: Seems like a castle in here (He said looking around at all that changed since the last time he was here.)

Cynthia: Well try not to get lost! (She smiled with a serious look in her eyes, letting Micheal know to keep up )

Micheal's gaze, sharp and restless, swept over the vast foyer. Marble gleamed underfoot, echoing the vaulted ceiling where a colossal chandelier hung like a frozen explosion of crystal.

Tapestries depicting forgotten pastoral scenes adorned walls that seemed to stretch into the heavens.

Micheal: Right! (Micheal mumbled) more to himself than to her, his jaw tightening.

The opulence was suffocating, a gilded cage. He remembered this place, but it felt... different.

He could feel the weight of its current secrets pressing down from every corner.

Cynthia, her smile softening a fraction, gestured vaguely down a wide corridor to the left.

Cynthia: Mr. Mariee tends to be either in his study – down that way, second door on the right – or in the conservatory, if he's not in the north wing library. She sighed, a practiced weariness.

Cynthia: "It's a big house. Make yourself comfortable in the main sitting room if you like, just through that archway.

Cynthia: I'll go see if I can track him down for you.

As Cynthia turned and began to move with a brisk, efficient pace down another, less ornate hallway, away from the area she left Micheal in only helped made his senses flared.

The faint, sweet aroma of lilies mingled with something sharper, almost metallic, a jarring note in the perfumed air.

It was barely there, a ghost of a scent clinging to the shadows?

His eyes narrowed, scanning the polished surfaces, the dark wood, the heavy drapes.

He caught a flicker of movement, a subtle shift in the light from a distant window, but nothing concrete.

Just the prickling sensation on his neck intensifying.

He took a step, his burnt suit rustling softly, the material a constant reminder of the death inferno he carried within from the funeral.

This wasn’t just a rich family house; it was a labyrinth of silence and echoing grief.

The ring in his ears, a persistent hum he'd almost tuned out, seemed to throb in rhythm with the mansion's hidden pulse.

There was an emptiness here, a vast, echoing space where life should have been vibrant.

He remembered Tinashe, vibrant, full of light in a white dress. Now, only shadows seemed to congregate.

He walked towards the archway Cynthia had indicated, his heavy boots making barely a sound on the marble.

Each step felt like an intrusion, a deliberate disturbance of the heavy quiet.

He was a sentinel, a disruptor, here to unearth something buried deep beneath the polished veneer.

The thought of P.J. flashed through his mind again—the urgency, the need to return, to escape this gilded prison and its ghosts of Tinashe.

But first, he had to confront them.

Micheal entered the archway finally…

The archway led not into comfort, but into a room designed to intimidate.

It was a main sitting room only in the sense that it contained seating—great, hulking sofas upholstered in deep burgundy velvet that swallowed the light. 

The air here was heavy, scented not just with lilies but with the aged, dry smell of Mr. Mariee’s expensive paper and furniture polish. 

Every surface was reflective, every painting an antique portrait with eyes that seemed to follow him with quiet judgment.

Micheal paused on the threshold. To ‘make himself comfortable’ here would be to sink into the meticulously arranged artifice. 

He certainly wasn’t going to sit.

Instead, he moved slowly, deliberately, toward the nearest bookcase—a vast, mahogany structure filled with volumes bound in leather seemingly untouched by human hands. 

As he tracked the edge of the room, keeping his back to the wall, the silence pressed in, amplifying the faint, persistent ring in his ears. 

It was a silence manufactured, a vacuum intended to suppress sound rather than merely lack it.

He reached the heavy drapes framing a tall bay window. 

They were drawn mostly closed, spilling only thin vertical strips of afternoon light onto the Persian rug. 

Leaning in slightly, Micheal confirmed the strange atmospheric discord. 

The metallic tang was strongest here, concentrated near the glass, hinting at fresh ozone or, more disturbingly, iron. It was sharp, cold, and utterly out of place amidst the silk and wood.

He ran the tips of his fingers along the edge of the polished skirting board where it met the marble floor. There, almost invisible beneath the lip of the wood, was a faint, almost microscopic scratch—a jagged line that interrupted the smooth veneer. 

It wasn't the kind of damage a housekeeping team would miss; it was too subtle, suggesting it was very new, or made by something very small but very hard?

Micheal knelt, ignoring the discomfort smell of the burnt suit fabric pulling and mixing against his skin. 

This scratch wasn't from a dropped vase; it ran parallel to the wall, as if something had been dragged past quickly, scraping low.

He straightened up, his movements fluid and quick despite his bulk. 

The scent, the silence, the infinitesimal scratch—they all painted a picture of recent, stressed activity. 

Someone had been through this room, or near this window, in a hurry, carrying or dragging something that didn't belong.

He glanced back at the archway, assuring himself Cynthia was well out of earshot. 

If Mr. Mariee was hiding, Micheal wasn't going to wait politely for him to be found!

(The library and the study were the stated options)

The library, the "north wing," felt too remote, too much like a wild goose chase. 

The study, however, was in the corridor Cynthia had pointed to first.

He slipped back out of the opulent sitting room, his mission shifting from patient inquiry to direct trespass. 

The vast marble foyer now felt less like a greeting space and more like a tactical maneuvering ground. 

He moved toward the corridor on the left, the one leading toward the study, his dress shoes no longer seeking silence, but speed.

As he reached the entrance of the long hallway, a tunnel lined with framed architectural etchings that he felt a sudden, distinct drop in temperature. 

And then, he heard it: not the echo of his own steps, but a quiet, rhythmic drip, drip, drip coming from somewhere farther down the passage, beyond the second door on the right.

It sounded like water, but against the backdrop of that iron scent and the cold, Micheal couldn’t shake the visceral dread that it sounded exactly like a leaking vein. 

He drew a long, slow breath, his hand instinctively brushing against the small, heavy weight concealed beneath the scorched fabric of his suit. 

The urgency to find Mariee, and then to feed P.J., became a cold, driving force.

 He started down the hallway
He hugged the right wall, minimizing his silhouette against the ambient light filtering from the foyer.

The corridor was unnervingly silent again, save for the metronome of the leak.

Drip. Drip. Drip!

The temperature continued to plummet. By the time he reached the first door—a narrow, unmarked panel that likely led to a closet or utility area—he could almost see his breath ghosting in the air.

The cold wasn’t merely the result of poor climate control; it was localized, heavy, like wading through a pool of liquid nitrogen that only existed in this stretch of hallway.

The second door was substantial, dark mahogany with a brass knob that looked recently polished.

This was the source?

The metallic smell, only an accent in the sitting room, was now a dominating presence—raw, coppery, and thick.

It saturated the air, confirming Micheal’s worst intuition: the drip was not water?

He halted three feet from the panel, his eyes scanning the floor.

The marble directly beneath the door was darker than the surrounding tiles. And there, emerging from the slight gap where the door met the threshold, was a sluggish, viscous trail.

It was a deep, uncompromising crimson, darker than the burgundy velvet of the sitting room sofas. It wasn't flowing; it was accumulating, stretching slowly into a miniature crescent before the next drop landed with a sickeningly dense plop.

Micheal didn't bother checking the brass knob. He knew it would be locked, or at the very least, resistant!

This wasn't a room meant to be casually entered!

He allowed the burnt sleeve of his coat to fall back, revealing the smooth, worn handle of the weapon he carried.

It was a heavy, specialized tool more than a traditional handgun, designed for close-quarters efficiency.

He pressed his ear against the cold wood of the door?

The rhythmic sound was deafeningly close now, accompanied by a low, almost imperceptible sound of strained breathing—shallow, wet, and ragged.

Someone was alive inside this chilled, bleeding chamber, but barely.

Micheal stepped back, adjusting his stance, He knew forcing the lock would be faster than brute-forcing the heavy door, but speed was secondary to surprise.

Breaking the door would certainly announce his presence to anyone else in the house, but the quiet horror inside demanded immediate intervention.

He knew if he took one rapid, tactical pace forward, raising his knee.

Instead of kicking the lock, he would drove his heavy dress shoe into the wood panel directly adjacent to the knob, aiming to split the frame rather than destroy the mechanism.

The sound would be devastating in the manufactured silence of the manor—a thunderous crack of ancient wood protesting the violence.

Splinters would only fly inward, and the lock mechanism, stressed by the sudden displacement of the frame, shrieked in protest before tearing loose.

Micheal didn't wanna wait for the door to swing open. He looked behind himself before slammed his shoulder into the weakened structure, shoving it inward with a crash that echoed down the marble hall.

The air would rush out after, of course it would be profoundly cold, smelling sharply of iron, but also of something clinical—antiseptic and ozone.

In Micheal’s mind, the room revealed was not a study or a library?

It was large, windowless, and designed in stark contrast to the rest of the house: industrial white tile walls, a drain in the center of the floor, and overhead fluorescent lights that hummed with a sickly blue intensity.

In the center of this sanitary nightmare, hunched over a stainless steel table, was a figure. And beneath the table, bound and struggling against heavy restraints, was a HUMAN with short, cropped hair and tear tracks scoring grime on the face of whoever was in there.

But P.J. was his only worry, over all that would come with opening this door!

He could here another figure inside, who maybe standing over the person, who would of turned slowly at the sound of the door finally giving way, who was maybe tall, slender, and wearing a pristine white butcher’s apron.

And the rhythmic, dreadful sound of dripping was caused by the slow, relentless slide of blood down the side of a massive, gleaming circular saw blade mounted on a heavy metal stand beside the table.

This was not Mr. Mariee's study. This was his workshop! ( without a doubt in Micheal’s mind)

Micheal placed his ear to the door one last time before deciding to walk away!

Random: Well, now, the man in the apron said, his voice soft and utterly devoid of surprise,

Random: that was dreadfully rude.

His hands, which were encased in long, latex gloves, holding a small, surgical scalpel delicately between his thumb and index finger.

Random: I wasn't quite finished.

Micheal removed his ear from the door and quickly headed down the hall before entering another room, closing the door behind him, with anger to his heart.

Micheal: Fuck! He said to himself… resting his head on the door!

Ms. Mariee: Dont worry, the person in there deserves all that is happening to them!

Micheal turned around with his back to the door, seeing Alicia mother standing next to the fire place wearing a custom Polar bear hat created by Nakisa, in a white silk dress and gloves that reminded micheal of Tinashe’s “Songs for you” album cover.

Micheal walked closer to her folding his hands, to gather his nerves!

Micheal: Who are we to say, what someone deserves?

Ms. Mariee: The people with power are the only ones micheal

Micheal: So much for god!

Micheal finished, the statement hollow and bitter as he planted his hands flat on the smooth wood behind him, trying to stabilize the tremor of rage that ran through his forearms.

Ms. Mariee gave a delicate, almost condescending smile, the pristine white of her gown and gloves amplifying the unsettling quality of the heavy, knitted polar bear head resting on her own.

She lifted a thin, etched crystal glass from the mantle, a glass Micheal hadn't noticed moments before and observed the meager amber liquid within.

Ms. Mariee: God is a convenient lie whispered only to the defeated, dear boy, she replied, her voice soft, carrying the precise acoustics of old money and inherited indifference.

She took a slow sip.

Ms. Mariee: Here, in this house, we deal in tangible reality!

Ms. Mariee: In influence, In consequence wielded by the living.

Ms. Mariee: If that poor soul next door is screaming for a deity, it is only because they have yet to understand who truly holds the instruments of their redemption or their demise.

Micheal pushed off the wood, straightening his suit.

The smell of copper and ozone still clung faintly to his sleeve. He forced the image of the gleaming saw blade and the restrained figure out of his mind, substituting the focused determination he usually reserved for high-stakes negotiation.

Micheal: And what consequence has that person earned? (Micheal demanded, folding his arms tightly across his chest.)

He managed to keep his tone leveled, a disciplined mask over the panic.

Ms. Mariee: I was told he was simply… misplaced. Not scheduled for vivisection.

Micheal: So that’s a animal ?

Ms. Mariee turned fully, gesturing dismissively toward the closed door without looking at it.

Ms. Mariee: He is an inconvenience, Micheal.

Ms. Mariee: He is a piece of misplaced property, nothing more.

Ms. Mariee: You worry about that creature in the hall, or about the promise you made to my daughter?

She tilted her head slightly, the plush polar bear hat shifting, making the scene feel even more absurdly theatrical.

Ms. Mariee: Priorities, Micheal. You are here to secure an asset for Alicia. Focus.”

Micheal: Tinashe is the asset, Micheal insisted.

Micheal: the key piece in the transfer that Alicia wants to make only works if we find Tinashe.

If she’s hurt, mutilated or dead, the whole deal collapses.

Micheal: Is this in the next room worth that risk?

Micheal: Just for some perverse sense of... justice?

Ms. Mariee: Justice is merely power applied retrospectively!

Ms. Mariee purred, setting the glass down and gliding toward him.

The silk of her dress barely whispered against the polished wood floor.

Ms. Mariee: And the person in that room is not the asset.

Ms. Mariee: He is a dependency, A liability, The true asset is the leverage you provide Alicia by operating within our rules will keep everything at a balence into Tinashe returns.

She stopped inches from him, tilting her chin up.

Micheal, despite the heat of his anger, felt the familiar, cold gravity she exerted.

Ms. Mariee: The leverage, Micheal, is your desperation.

Ms. Mariee: And you are desperately worried!

(Micheal observed, her eyes sharp)

Ms. Mariee: You are worried about the ethical implications of that sound next door. But worse, you are worried about the political implications of retrieving Tinashe intact.

Ms. Mariee: You worry that if you retrieve her too easily, you diminish the sacrifice you are making for Alicia.

Micheal clenched his jaw. She was attempting to dissect his motives and the internal calculus that had made him walk away from the spot he stood in long enough.

Micheal: I am worried about keeping my end of the bargain, he corrected her tersely. “

Micheal: And that means I need to find Tinashe now before Mr. Mariee decides his little workshop needs a thorough cleaning.

Micheal: Where is he?”

Ms. Mariee smiled, a small, triumphant contraction of her lips!

She walked closer to Micheal reached out one gloved hand and gently ran a finger down the scorched fabric of his suit sleeve, right to the point where the smooth wood handle of his specialized weapon was visible beneath the char.

Ms. Mariee: You came prepared to fight the gatekeepers, Micheal,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

Micheal: No…I’m just always ready to fight!

Ms. Mariee: But I can see you are uncomfortable fighting the philosophers and rumors.

Ms. Mariee: Very well…

Ms. Mariee: My busy husband is not in the house!

Ms. Mariee: Nor am I currently receiving my husband’s unique brand of instruction.

Micheal’s shoulders dropped fractionally, relief momentarily overriding suspicion.

Micheal: Where, then?”

Ms. Mariee: He is in the tower,” she stated simply. “The North Solarium'“. But be warned, Michael. If you go up there looking for the missing piece, you may find that the game has already moved beyond securing Tinashe.

Ms. Mariee: You may find that the only thing left to secure is your own loyalty!

She paused, the surreal white figure framed by the roaring fireplace came alive in her words of truth.

Ms. Mariee: Oh, and one more thing!

Ms. Mariee: The tower elevator is disabled. You’ll have to take the stairs. It’s a very long climb.

Micheal looked at her one last time before walking out the door, noticing the skin on your body and face was as clean, as the rules give to even enter the Solarium.

Micheal left the opulent, suffocating room, the scent of old money and something metallic – blood, perhaps, or just the polished brass of the house – clinging to him like a second skin.

He pushed open the heavy oak door, the silence of the hallway a welcome, if temporary, reprieve from Ms. Mariee’s carefully crafted words.

The muffled, desperate sounds from the room next door were still a stark counterpoint to the serene, almost unreal calm of the manor.

He didn’t linger, didn’t dare look back. His focus, honed by years of navigating treacherous deals and even more treacherous people, narrowed on the task at hand: Finding Tinashe.

Micheal ran into Cynthia!

Cynthia: Did you find Mr. Mariee?

I was told that he is in the Tower?

Cynthia: Okay, that explains why i have not seen him hardly today?

Cynthia: Ill be happy to take you there now!

Micheal: Okay…but do you think i can see Alicia first?

Cynthia: Oh, Of course, this way please!

INT. MARIEE’S MANSION - VARIOUS ROOMS

Cynthia lead Micheal into a large, unused formal parlor. There are white dust sheets over the furniture and the walls are being repainted.

On a number of TV screens scattered around, Tinashe's latest video ( the last one the world saw of her Cosmetic product called “Skin Of A God” the worlds number 1 skincare product) is continuously playing.

The sound of the song itself -- "Ugh huh" -- comes softly from concealed speakers.

Micheal stops to look at all the random cut scenes, that make up the commercial of Tinashe!

(Making Micheal only miss her so much more!)

Micheal stopped, his attention snagged by the hypnotic glare of the screens.

Tinashe’s face—flawless, luminous—smiled effortlessly at the camera, promoting the product that had made her bigger than any other global icon.

Yet the sound was unsettlingly low, a repetitive, almost mournful hum filling the vast, sheeted space.

The wooden cases, stacked nearly to the ceiling in some corners, bore the definitive logo: Skin Of A God. It wasn't just a surplus; it was an overwhelming archive, a graveyard of unparalleled commercial success.

Micheal: (Quietly, looking at a stack of crates) This is… a lot of product!

Cynthia stepped past a freshly painted wall, her movements light and efficient despite the dust sheets. She didn't look at the screens, seemingly immune to Tinashe's perpetual presence.

Cynthia: (A faint sigh) Mr. Mariee had brought every factory so not even ‘Sephora’ could have the idems for sell with other brands like Fenty and Mac, making sure all the shipment would only come from here with full control on taxes and packaging.

Cynthia: Mr. Mariee after had this room designated as Tinashe’s “legacy overflow.”

Cynthia: He insisted on storing the first full run here, where he could “feel the progress.”

Cynthia: After… everything, he couldn’t bring himself to move it.

Cynthia: The commercial is kept running in this wing. A tribute to the love he has for this project.

Micheal reached out and touched the raw wood of a crate label. It felt cold, inanimate, yet strangely charged.

The irony was suffocating: the world's most desired cosmetic, stored like relics in an abandoned shrine.

Micheal: She is quite the phenomenon!

Cynthia: She was the future, i guess thats why she disappeared, it all just become to much for her!

Cynthia gave him a knowing look, then gestured toward a doorway that looked slightly less neglected than the rest of the parlor.

Cynthia: Alicia is through here. She’s assisting the renovation team on her wedding, trying to keep herself occupied.

Cynthia: She’s been very concerned about you!

They moved quickly out of the parlor, the soft, looping beat of "Ugh huh" fading behind them as Cynthia led Micheal down a short, brightly lit corridor. Unlike the parlor, this passageway felt alive, filled with the faint smells of wet paint and expensive cleaning products.

INT. MARIEE’S MANSION - RENOVATION OFFICE - CONTINUOUS

Cynthia opened a door marked "TEMPORARY SITE OFFICE."

Inside, Alicia assistant Racheal, who sat hunched over a large drafting table covered in blueprints and sample color swatches. She wore black and white piece over her usual elegant attire, her hair free and flowing down her shoulders and back.

Micheal steps into a room that overlooks the pool area. One wall is all glass. On the opposite wall are shelves containing the trophies of Rachel career, other statuettes and plaques.

Among the framed photographs of Rachel accepting awards etc…

She was meticulously coloring in a section of a floor plan with a deep crimson marker.

Racheal: Hello Cynthia! ( Shocked to see Micheal)

Cynthia: Afternoon Lady Racheal, Micheal Is here to see your sister before I take him to see your father!

Racheal: She is right next door!

Micheal: This room…I like it!

Cynthia gave a discreet cough, reminding them of her presence.

Cynthia: I’ll wait outside, Micheal. When you’re ready, we’ll head up to the Tower where Mr. Mariee is expecting you.

Cynthia: take your time, once you are done with Alicia, come find me Micheal!

Micheal: Okay Thank you Cynthia…

Cynthia slipped out, leaving Micheal and Racheal alone in the small, chaotic office alone to talk!

Racheal pushed back from the table, nearly knocking over a can of lemonade, due to almost rushing toward him, stopping herself wanting to embrace within all her excitement.

Racheal: You know its almost an honor to meet the father of the “Great Tinashe”

Micheal: (He smirks) Thank You, You must be new, like many things that have changed since i’ve been here!

Micheal: So where did Alicia find you?

Racheal: College!

Micheal turn his back to her, as he walks to the door of where Alicia was!

Micheal opened the door…

Alicia looked up sharply as the door opened, her hair pulled back tightly in a bun. Her face, usually guarded with Elizabeth Dye standing behind her, but all that broke into a visible wave of relief when she saw Micheal.

Alicia: Micheal! Oh, thank God!

Micheal smiled closing the door behind him, without wasting a time, he greets and to ask Elizabeth, if he could have a minute alone with Alicia. (soon as she left the conversation of to close family members had finally reunited once more)

Alicia: I heard what happened to the car, And then you weren’t answering your phone. I was afraid you’d left.

Micheal: (A small, weary smile) I’m a little stubborn. I just needed to find my footing. And I’m fine, the car is just… having a rough time.

Alicia I heard in the other room that you are going to “The Tower”?

Alicia: He’s actually agreeing to see you?

Micheal: Apparently, yes! But I needed to see you first.

Micheal: I have to ask you about the Tinashe!

Alicia: I keep running into walls about it all…

Micheal: Tell me about the last time you saw Tinashe?

Micheal: After the police arrived, what did your father do?

Micheal: What did you do?

Alicia took a deep breath, her eyes flicking nervously toward the closed door.

She walked to the drafting table, picked up the Sharpie marker she had dropped, and gripped it tight.

(Writing a note on a Post-It sticky note!)

Alicia: It was chaos, Micheal. Absolute, terrifying chaos.

Alicia: When the police showed up, my father… he didn’t react like a man who was grieving, after the cops left...

Alicia: He reacted like a man who was organizing a siege!

Alicia: He shut the house down, Secured everything.

Micheal: Secured what?

Alicia: Her personal room of things, the private office she had here, Her studio!

Alicia: He called a meeting the same night, told everyone involved in the launch—including me—to forget everything they knew about the formula and the production line.

Alicia: He said the Skin Of A God brand was going into indefinite cold storage, effective immediately. And then… he locked himself in the Tower, and he hasn't truly left since.

Micheal lost in all her words of disbelief, as he he questioned Alicia more..

MICHEAL Why? Why shut down the greatest commercial success of the decade?

Micheal: You don’t just put a monument in cold storage, Alicia, you capitalize on it.

Micheal: You turn Tinashe into a martyr and the product into a timeless staple.

Alicia avoided his direct gaze, her concentration fixed on the line she was drawing on the Post-It.

Alicia: My father didn't see it as a commercial success anymore.

Alicia: He saw it as evidence.

Micheal: Evidence of what?

Micheal: Do he know where Tinashe is?

ALICIA (A sharp, humorless laugh) You think the man who built a literal tower similar to 1929, just so he could be closer to his most prized creation believes in accidents?

Alicia: When Tinashe vanished, Micheal, he went through her research notebooks like a madman.

Alicia: He burned half of them himself.

Alicia: The other half… he secured in the Tower's sub-level vault.

Micheal: The formula was compromised?

Alicia: It was worse than compromised.

He believed that if anyone—the police, the competitors, the press—truly analyzed the composition, the source of the ingredients, they would figure out what actually drove Tinashe to be the most beautiful she was.

Alicia: What made ‘Skin Of A God’ work, as of now only my mother has access to it and uses it everyday.

She finally looked up, her expression intense and deeply troubled.

Alicia: Micheal, it wasn’t just a cosmetic?

Alicia: It was an obsession!

Alicia: Tinashe didn’t just invent confidence; she fabricated it using something... proprietary.

Alicia: Something that only came with a certain kind of sacrifice, to trashing all the other things.

Alicia: My father knew that if that secret got out, everything his entire empire, his relationship with her, the entire structure of the brand would collapse into a criminal investigation.

The temporary office door opened abruptly. Cynthia stood silhouetted in the frame, her face impassive.

Cynthia: Micheal, Mr. Mariee is becoming impatient.

Cynthia: The meeting is scheduled for 11:30 sharp!

Micheal nodded to Cynthia, his focus never leaving Alicia.

The phrase "a certain kind of sacrifice" hung in the air, heavy and disturbing.

Micheal: I understand. I’m coming.

He stepped closer to Alicia, lowering his voice until it was barely a whisper. (Everything before sound like anger coming from him over curious!)

Micheal: Alicia, thank you.

Micheal: You have given me a key.

Micheal: But I need you to be safe.

Micheal: If your dad is protecting a secret this big, he will protect the silence surrounding ‘where she is’ even more fiercely.

Alicia: I know!

Micheal: That’s why I’m here!

Alicia: I got Racheal organizing the renovation, staying close to the center of the orbit, but looking busy.

Alicia: No one suspects the cleaning crew!

She placed the marker down, The pressed ink to the yellow note looked like a bloodstain…

Alicia: Be careful up there, Micheal.

Alicia: The Tower is where he keeps the secrets.

Alicia: It’s where Tinashe lost her balance.

Micheal gave her a brief, reassuring squeeze on the shoulder!

He turned away from the architectural chaos, all of Alicia beauty in the room brighten it with life, his mind running too fast for his feet.

He had come here looking for a simple narrative of greed, negligence, that felt like a tragic mistake.

Alicia had just handed him a conspiracy wrapped in a multi-million-dollar beauty product.

Alicia and Micheal entered the office together…

The temporary office door opened abruptly.

Cynthia stood silhouetted in the frame, her face impassive.

Cynthia: Micheal, Mr. Mariee is going to becoming impatient after hearing you here.

Micheal nodded to Cynthia, again!

Micheal: Yes, I’m coming.

He followed Cynthia back into the brightly lit corridor.

The deeper Micheal walks into the house, the warmer and more lived-in rooms appear.

Cynthia: (As they walk) Mr. Mariee doesn’t receive guests often.

Cynthia: Especially not private investigators looking into matters he considers definitively concluded.

Cynthia: I hope you understand the gravity of this audience.

(Straightening up his suit) I understand perfectly, Cynthia.

Micheal: I am here to discuss the legacy of his daughter.

They reached a massive, ornate door made of dark, heavily lacquered wood.

It stood at the base of a sweeping, almost intimidating spiral staircase that seemed to climb endlessly into the ceiling.

Cynthia: The rest of the house is built low and wide, but the Tower, Mr. Mariee’s sanctuary, demands verticality.

Cynthia: This is the only way up.

She gestured toward the enclosed staircase.

Cynthia: He will be waiting in the Observatory.

Cynthia: Try not to mention the inventory in the parlor.

Cynthia: He finds the repetition soothing, but it is not a topic for conversation.

INT. MARIEE’S TOWER STAIRCASE - Front Door

Cynthia opened the door, revealing the steep, dark ascent.

Micheal paused at the threshold, taking one last breath of the air scented with new paint and normalcy.

Ahead lay the hermetically sealed world of Mr. Mariee.

A world built on secrets, silence and a single, dangerous secret formula.

He finally made it to the staircase, a grand, sweeping arc of dark wood and wrought iron.

Each step echoed his descent, a stark contrast to the silent glide of Ms. Mariee.

The air grew cooler, dustier, as he moved further from the main living areas.

He was a man accustomed to the hum of technology, the efficiency of elevators.

The climb was a physical manifestation of the uphill battle he was facing.

His heart, despite his outward composure, hammered against his ribs with each ascending step.

He mentally cataloged the possible scenarios, each more grim than the last.

Micheal: What had happened with Mr. Mariee & Tinashe? And what did Ms. Mariee mean about loyalty?

He stepped inside his brain and began to climb futher in.

INT. MARIEE’S TOWER STAIRCASE - CONTINUOUS

The air was thick and still.

The staircase was not brightly lit; instead, recessed lights cast long, segmented shadows up the curved stone walls. Micheal could feel the structure vibrating faintly—the mansion’s pulse, heavy and slow.

As he ascended, the noises of the renovation and the distant, repetitive hum of Tinashe’s commercial vanished entirely. There was only the sound of his own shoes on the stone steps.

The climb was long, designed less for convenience and more for ceremonial isolation.

Finally, the staircase opened onto a landing protected by a reinforced glass door.

A thin, ascetic man in a perfectly tailored dark suit stood by the door.

He was entirely bald, his skin pale and stretched tight, giving him the look of a highly polished statue.

The Assistant: (Quietly) Mr. Mariee is ready for you.

The Assistant: No recording devices.

The Assistant: No immediate contact.

The Assistant: You will remain within the designated perimeter.

Micheal nodded, with the assistant opening the final door.

INT. MARIEE’S TOWER - OBSERVATORY - CONTINUOUS

The room was circular, dominating the skyline.

It was sparsely furnished, primarily with ancient, heavy astronomy equipment and deep velvet draperies.

One side of the room was entirely glass, offering a stunning, dizzying view of all below.

Standing at the apex of the room, looking out over the sprawl of the metropolis, was MR. MARIEE (70s), a small man with an immense presence. He was dressed in immaculate white silk pajamas and a heavy cashmere robe. His hair, stark white and meticulously combed, shone under the ambient light.

He didn't turn around immediately, but the moment Micheal stepped onto the polished floor, the air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

Mr. Mariee (Voice deep, cultivated, echoing slightly off the glass Micheal stood near)

Mr. Mariee: I hope my staff made you comfortable, Micheal.

Mr.Mariee: You have wasted enough of my time already, tracking down ghosts.

He finally turned, his eyes piercing and devoid of any warmth.

Mr. Mariee: Tell me Micheal, before you begin your carefully rehearsed questions: why are you so interested in something that has ceased to exist?

Mr. Mariee: Do you know what it costs to simply stop being successful?

Micheal breathless.

Mr. Mariee: Come!

Walking to the The East of the Solarium!

It was a vast, glass-enclosed space, designed to capture the sun’s dwindling autumn rays.

Inside, the air was still and surprisingly warm, filled with the scent of exotic plants and something else… something faintly sweet and cloying. It was meticulously maintained, a stark contrast to the grim implications of the room he’d just left. Sunlight streamed through the glass panels that charged lights in all spaces.

And then he saw it.

Not Tinashe !

Not immediately.

Instead, he saw meticulously arranged displays of… botanical specimens. Rare orchids, carnivorous plants, and strange, twisted vines twisted and coiled within glass enclosures. And amidst them, strategically placed, were various scientific instruments to scalpels, petri dishes, microscopes. It was a sterile, almost clinical environment, a stark to the cozy opulence of the house below.

His gaze swept across the room, his senses on high alert.

He’d expected a workshop, perhaps something crude and hidden.

This was something else entirely.

Educational, almost. Like a twisted, private museum of the macabre.

His eyes landed on a large, antique wooden cabinet against the far wall. It was ornately carved, but its doors were firmly shut, betraying none of its contents.

There was a subtle tension in the air, a stillness that felt too deliberate.

He moved towards it, his hand instinctively going to the concealed weapon beneath his suit.

The floorboards creaked softly under his weight.

He stopped, listening!

Suddenly, a small, almost imperceptible movement caught his eye.

A shadow, flickering behind one of the larger glass enclosures.

He froze, his body tensing.

“Tinashe?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

There was no immediate response. Only the faint rustle of leaves.

He took another cautious step?

The shadow moved again, more definitively this time. And then, a figure emerged, stepping slowly from behind the dense foliage of a Venus flytrap the size of a dinner plate.

But it wasn’t Tinashe.

It was a man, older, with thinning grey hair and wire-rimmed glasses perched on a sharp nose.

He was wearing a stained lab coat, and his hands, meticulously clean, held a small, delicate pair of tweezers.

His expression was one of mild irritation, as if a fly had just buzzed into his carefully curated space.

Micheal’s jaw tightened.

Ms. Mariee hadn't lied about her husband’s absence from the house!

But she had certainly omitted a crucial detail about his presence in the Solarium.

The game, as she’d warned, was indeed changing.

And it seemed the philosophers in this house were just as dangerous, if not more so, than the butchers.

Micheal finally met Mr. Mariee's gaze, a deliberate slowness in his movement, as if to prove the chill in the room hadn't reached his core.

He smoothed the lapel of his blazer, a subtle act of defiance, before speaking.

Micheal: I have a very good idea of what it costs, Mr. Mariee.

Micheal: Not in broken contracts or liquidated assets, but in lives.

In trust! In potential.

He took a small step forward, away from the glass, grounding himself.

Micheal: And things don't just cease to exist?

Mr. Mariee: They are made to, Or they are hidden!

Mr. Mariee: And that's usually far more expensive…

He allowed a faint, humorless smile to touch his lips. "

Micheal: As for being interested in a ghost, as you call it... ghosts leave traces.

Mr. Mariee: And those traces tell a story that's far more compelling than the official narrative.

Micheal: My questions aren't rehearsed, Mr. Mariee!

Micheal: They're based on those traces. And they're about to begin!

Mr. Mariee’s lips thinned, his eyes narrowing just perceptibly.

The air, if possible, seemed to grow even colder, thick with unspoken challenge.

He didn't interrupt, but allowed Micheal's words to hang for a moment, testing their weight.

Mr. Mariee: A compelling story, you say?

Mr. Mariee: But stories are for children, Micheal.

Micheal: Or fools, but I deal in facts!

Mr. Mariee: I only outcomes. He gestured vaguely around the expansive, minimalist office, its walls adorned with abstract art and panoramic view.

Micheal: This is an outcome.

Mr. Mariee: What you are chasing is a shadow.

Mr. Mariee: "Let me enlighten you.

Mr. Mariee: The cost of stop being successful is the cost of moving on, off adaptation and foresight.

Micheal: My foresight. And the only people who truly pay that cost are those who lack the vision to see the next horizon.

Mr. Mariee voice was low, yet each word articulated with the precision of a scalpel.

Mr. Mariee: Now, if you insist on playing the inquisitor, be my guest.

Mr. Mariee: But understand, you are not digging up anything but dust.

Mr. Mariee: And I have no intention of letting you dirty my carpets Micheal.

Micheal’s gaze didn’t waver.

Micheal: Dust settles, Mr. Mariee. But blood… blood stains.

Micheal: Not even the most expensive carpets can truly hide it.

He took another deliberate step, closing the distance between them by mere inches, a subtle invasion of Mariee’s meticulously controlled space.

Micheal: Let’s talk about Project S.O.A.G then, (Micheal continued his voice dropping slightly, imbued with a gravity that seemed to pull at the pristine air.)

Mr. Mariee: Or perhaps, the ‘ghost’ of it, as you prefer to call it.

Micheal: Where did it truly go?

Mr. Mariee’s lips, already thin, pressed into an even sharper line.

For the first time, a flicker of something unreadable was a surprise to Mr. Mariee, perhaps, or a momentary assessment to the depth of Micheal’s knowledge, would crossed his eyes before being swiftly veiled.

Mr. Mariee: steepled his fingers, leaning back slightly in his ergonomic chair, a picture of studied calm.

Mr. Mariee: Project S.O.A.G, Mr. Mariee repeated, the name tasting foreign on his tongue, as if recalling an outdated currency.

A relic. An unfortunate necessity, buried long ago.

Mr. Mariee: A cost of adaptation, as I’ve explained.

Micheal: Buried, yes. But not forgotten,” Micheal countered, his voice cutting through the manufactured tranquility of the space

Micheal: Not by those it was built upon, or by those it destroyed.

Micheal: And the cost, Mr. Mariee, was paid in more than just foresight and vision.

Mariee’s smile returned, colder this time, devoid of anything resembling warmth.

Mr. Mariee: You speak in parables, Micheal.

Mr. Mariee: I deal in ledgers!

Mr. Mariee: the ledger for ‘Project S.O.A.G,’ as you so quaintly refer to it, was balanced years ago.

Mr. Mariee: Its existence was a blip on the radar, a temporary divergence from the optimal path.

Mr. Mariee: Nothing more.”

Micheal: A blip that left a crater, Micheal retorted, his eyes holding Mariee’s.

Micheal: A crater filled with silence, with disappearances.

With the kind of ‘traces’ that don’t vanish, no matter how many layers of dust you try to lay over them.

Micheal: Tell me, Mr. Mariee, how many people knew about the true nature of S.O.A.G before it became a relic?

Silence came from Mr. Mariee with Micheal turning his back at Mr. Mariee not know where Tinashe was.

(But Micheal knew without a doubt, that Mr. Mariee knew something?)

The air in Mr. Mariee’s tower was clean but thin, not just from the altitude, but from the sterile, intellectual vacuum that the man seemed to carry everywhere he went.

Micheal Kachingwe made it down the circular stone staircase, his shoes echoing a sharp, solitary beat against the marble, a sound that felt inappropriately loud in the sepulchral silence of the descent.

The conversation: if one could call a series of non sequiturs tied to an absurd, abstract concept a conversation, had been an ordeal.

It wasn't the philosophical rigor that unnerved Micheal; it was the sheer pointlessness of it.

Tinashe.

Micheal had spent twenty minutes trying to derive the meaning, the context, the origin, only for Mr. Mariee to abruptly pivot to the optimal humidity levels for preserving nineteenth-century pocket watch gears.

Now, with the chill of the tower behind him, Kachingwe reached the main floor.

The shift was jarring!

The tower had been monochromatic and spartan; the main floor of Mr. Mariee’s isolated estate, known locally only as The Folly, was a dizzying display of Gilded Age excess and neglected opulence.

Micheal stepped off the final riser onto a Persian rug so thick his shoe sank slightly, muffling the sound completely. He paused, adjusting his tie, feeling the residual tension in his shoulders.

The main hallway stretched before him like a museum exhibit curated by a madman.

Wall sconces depicting weeping angels held dim bulbs that cast nervous amber light onto tapestries illustrating purely fictional astronomical events.

A clock the size of a small car stood against the far wall, its twelve Roman numerals replaced by twelve different shades of green. It was stopped precisely at 3:17.

He needed to find his way out.

He needed the car, the noise, the ordinary vulgarity of the L.A city.

He needed something to scrub the strange, lingering perfume of obsolescence and abstraction from his mind.

As he walked, his reflection tracked him in the polished surface of the floor.

Micheal looked like a normal man, a man with a sensible coat and a job, a man who had no business discussing "necessary fictions" with a man who collected antique surgical instruments and referred to his butler, who was not present, as "The Steward of Minor Errors."

He passed a table laden with antique atlases.

He stopped, tracing the coastline of a defunct continent with his finger.

Tinashe.

He whispered the name, testing the sound.

It felt solid, real, Zimbabwean perhaps? It sounded like a person, yet Mr. Mariee had delivered it with the finality of a mathematical solution.

A necessary fiction.

Micheal realized with a jolt that Tinashe wasn't a concept or a person or a code word for global finance; Tinashe was the unsettling implication that Mr. Mariee’s entire world was built on a deliberate lie and that Micheal had just been forced to acknowledge it.

He spotted the antechamber where he would of had left his coat.

He quickened his pace, needing to break free of the inertia of the mansion.

Just as he reached the massive, carved mahogany doors leading outside, a small silver bell, no larger than a thimble, sounded faintly from somewhere upstairs.

It was a precise, high-pitched chime, like a final punctuation mark!

(Micheal instinctively knew what it meant.)

Mr. Mariee was merely confirming that the conversation was, irrevocably, over.

(He was signaling that the ritual had been completed.)

Micheal snatched his comfort, refusing to look back at the shadowy depths of the hallway.

He wrenched the door open.

The immediate world outside was brutal and familiar: the damp smell of pine needles, the insistent cry of gulls, the sharp, reassuring reality of the gravel path leading down the hill.

He stood on the court inhaling the clean, cold air, feeling the eccentricity of the tower retreat into the edifice behind him.

Micheal Kachingwe stepped off the step away from his last source of information and began walking rapidly toward his vehicle.

He knew he would never understand the conversation, nor would he try. But as he unlocked his Mustang car door, he felt the damp conversation.

(He decided he wouldn't throw it away, felt like a heavy meaningless stone in his pocket.)

He needed to remember that moment…that strange, isolated interval where logic had failed him entirely.

He needed a reminder that the world sometimes demanded you accept a lie simply so you could get on with the rest of the day.

Micheal Kachingwe pulled out onto the narrow country road, heading home to P.J, carrying the necessary fiction of Tinashe with him like a warning.

Now he knew PULLING OFF “ the truth stood on its own legs”

Michael’s black Mustang growled to life, its engine a low, rebellious purr as it rumbled away from the neon glare of Cyber City.

The car’s chrome trim reflected the city’s electric pulse—neon rivers of advertisements, the stuttering hum of drones, the oppressive grid of steel and glass—but Michael had no interest in the future.

The ride got long as Micheal had fallen deeper into the dust of the unclaimed parts of L.A.

Not even a single sign with a name, attached to it existed!

He was chasing a ghost?

As he felt the sadness of everything from the start of today, leaving his mind!

one whispered about in old folk songs and forbidden histories: the Hidden La Mountains, home to the Lost Happy Mexicans.

( the only thing Karen Bass was remembered for)

Micheal entered with his black Horses power Stallion Butterfly Wing Beauty.

The Cyber City below was a cathedral to progress, where algorithms dictated heartbeats and surveillance cameras blinked like mechanical fireflies.

Michael had thrived there once, a mechanic who could coax life from rusted husks, but the city’s cold efficiency had begun to calcify his soul.

A smuggled ballad on a cracked MP3 player had lured him: “Where the eagles carve the sky and the agave blooms wild, the lost ones laugh in the shadow of the machines.” 

The lyrics hinted at a sanctuary, a community that had severed ties with the digital yoke.

Now, with the Mustang’s GPS disabled and his heartbeat syncopated with the road, Michael sought them.

The ascent was treacherous. The highway dissolved into switchbacks clawing up the mountainside, and the Mustang’s sensors flared warnings—low signal, unstable terrain, probability of existential error.

Michael ignored them.

Beyond the last checkpoint, the city’s light dissolved into starless darkness forming from it being later in the day, as the air thickened with the scent of pine and rebellion.

At dawn, he found the pass. The mountains yawned open like a secret, their jagged teeth softened by mist.

There, etched into basalt, was a symbol: a mustang galloping beside an agave plant, flanked by the words “Vive Libre”.

Michael’s breath caught.

He’d seen that logo once on a faded jacket belonging to his father, a man erased by the city’s re-education programs.

The Mustang groaned as Michael turned off the engine.

Stepping out the car into silence only flooding in, broken only by the distant, impossible sound of laughter coming from a chorus of voices, joyous and unhinged.

He followed the sound to a valley where the Lost Happy Mexicans awaited.

They were not primitives, as the city’s myths claimed, but architects of a different future.

Their adobe homes pulsed with organic tech, powered by bioluminescent fungi and solar-woven textiles.

Children with augmented reality tattoos danced in the streets, their play a blend of pre-Columbian myth and digital art.

The elders, clad in traditional charros with neural implants hidden beneath their sombreros, greeted Michael with a mix of curiosity and recognition.

Senora Isela: “You brought the caballo negro,” said Senora Isela, her voice a gravelly melody.

Senora Isela: “The Mustangs were the first circuits in our rebellion. Before the city stole our stars, we coded freedom into their steel.”

The Lost Happy Mexicans revealed the Mustang’s secret: it was more than a car. Its frame held a fragment of the Red Agave Code, an ancient algorithm designed not to control, but to disconnect to sever the umbilical of surveillance and restore balance between machine and man.

Michael’s father had been part of the last caravan to hide it, and now the burden passed to him.

Micheal said hello and grabbed a little more happiness before heading home to be a slave to P.J.

Leaving wasn’t what Micheal wanted at all!

As Cyber City’s drones began to hunt, the Mustang’s engine roared anew, its modified AI now a conduit for the Code.

Michael became a mythospire between worlds, teaching the city to forget, while the mountains remembered.

In the end, he didn’t choose one realm over the other.

Instead, he became a nomadic thread in their tapestry, the black Mustang a legend that flickered in both places—a reminder that freedom is not a destination, but the road itself, carved by those who dare to drive into the dark with a horse.

Ext: California State University

The people walked free and clueless around campus!

The crowded conference room at California State University was filled with an air of forced camaraderie, as men from various walks of life gathered to discuss the latest developments in their respective fields.

On the surface, it seemed like a typical gathering of professionals, with suits and ties, firm handshakes, and polite smiles. However, beneath the façade of masculinity and traditional values, a different story unfolded.

Many of these men, with their wives and children waiting at home, harbored secrets they dare not speak aloud.

Secrets of a different kind of desire, one that contradicted the very fabric of their public personas.

They were men who had built their lives around the expectations of others, suppressing their true selves, and in some cases, cultivating a deep-seated resentment towards the women they claimed to love.

As they sipped their coffee and exchanged pleasantries, a sense of unease settled over the room.

It wasn't just the stifling atmosphere of repression that hung in the air, but a growing concern about a new and mysterious virus wave that was sweeping the nation.

A bug that carry the viruses at once seemed to be the reason.

Reports were emerging of a highly contagious and deadly strain, one that seemed to be spreading rapidly, with Los Angeles as its next predicted hotspot.

making the people that know they would live to tell the tale, feel very alone when singling out of the others in the room.

(who they knew would die before them)

The men in the room glanced at each other nervously, their minds racing with the implications. They knew that millions of people would be traveling to L.A. in the coming weeks, unaware of the danger that lurked in the shadows. The thought sent a shiver down their spines, and for a moment, their carefully constructed masks slipped, revealing a glimmer of fear and vulnerability.

One of the men, a tall, imposing figure with a chiseled jawline, cleared his throat to speak.

His voice was low and gravelly, but it trembled ever so slightly as he addressed the room.

Mr.Beck: Gentlemen, I think we need to discuss this new virus wave.

Mr.Beck The latest reports suggest it's airborne, and the mortality rate is... alarming.

We need to take precautions, not just for ourselves, but for our families, our loved ones..."

As he spoke, his eyes darted around the room, and into the hall way away from the meeting before the gaze return of his fellow sufferers.

For an instant, they connected on a deeper level, their shared secrets and fears creating a bond that transcended their public personas. But the moment was fleeting, and soon, the masks were firmly back in place.

The discussion that followed was tense and urgent, with the men debating the best course of action to protect themselves and their communities. They spoke of vaccines and quarantine protocols, of travel restrictions and emergency response plans. But beneath the surface, a more complex and sinister dynamic was at play.

As the meeting drew to a close, the men filed out of the conference room, their faces set in determined lines.

But as they disappeared into the crowded corridors of the university, the shadows seemed to grow longer, and the air thickened with an unspoken sense of dread.

For in the midst of this looming pandemic, they knew that their deepest secrets and desires would be tested, and the very foundations of their carefully constructed lives would be threatened.

The virus wave was coming, and with it, a reckoning that would expose the hidden truths of these men, and the world they had built around themselves.

As Mr.Beck vanished into the crowd outside, the city of Los Angeles loomed in the distance, a metropolis on the brink of chaos, where the boundaries between reality and deception would soon be blurred beyond recognition.

The polished mahogany table gleamed under the recessed lights, reflecting a symphony of focused energy.

No grey suits dominated here, no deep, rumbling baritones held sway.

The boardroom at California State University, Northridge, on this crisp autumn morning was cold with fear.

The air full with intellectual discourse, the respectful clink of ceramic mugs against saucers, the purposeful rustle of papers.

They were deep into the annual budget review, a beast of a meeting that usually took days to tame.

Ideas clashed and coalesced, theories were tested, and strategic visions were meticulously dissected.

Each person brought him formidable intellect, but he had one female with years of experience, and her unwavering dedication to the university's mission.

But at the head of that table, a quiet anchor amidst the swirling currents of deliberation, sat Aimie Kachingwe.

(Who was putting her phone volume on zero at the moment)

Aimie she was a force of nature refined by decades of navigating the complex landscapes of academia and public service.

Her skin, the color of rich earth, seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it, and only when she stepped inside…

Aimie became an angel-

Forever it was drawing attention to the intensity of her eyes of deep, knowing pools that missed nothing.

Her posture was erect, almost regal, yet there was an approachable warmth in the faint smile that often played on her lips.

She had listened for hours, a master conductor allowing each section of the orchestra to play its part, absorbing every nuance, every argument, every passionate plea.

The current discussion on her mind revolved around a groundbreaking proposal: the establishment of the "Institute for Inclusive Futures,"

a bold, interdisciplinary venture aimed at tackling systemic inequalities through applied research and community engagement.

It was ambitious, expensive, and carried both immense promise and significant risk.

Arguments for potential funding streams had been laid out by Erika Beck. Dr. Erika had detailed the academic rigor and potential for national recognition.

Aimie had passionately articulated its potential impact on student learning and community outreach, before caring about the end of the world.

Aimie felt living for tomorrow was a happier way of thinking past death.

The room fell into a considerate silence as the last presenter concluded.

(All eyes turned to Aimie and she was not in her lab coat today.)

It wasn't a demanding gaze, but one filled with expectation

The collective understanding that, while their input on fear was vital, the final trajectory of their shared endeavor rested with her.

Aimie took a slow, measured breath.

Aimie: Thank you, all! (she began, her voice low, resonant, and carrying the weight of deep thought.)

Aimie: Your perspectives have been, as always, invaluable.

Aimie: The Institute for Inclusive Futures is not merely an initiative; it's a statement.

Aimie: A statement about who we are, what we value, and what future we intend to build.

Aimie paused, her gaze sweeping across each face, acknowledging their contributions.

Mr.Beck: your financial projections, while conservative, do highlight the significant investment required. i see your framework for academic excellence sets a benchmark that few institutions could meet. Yes, your vision for community integration speaks to the very heart of CSUN's foundational principles.

(A ripple of anticipation went through the room)

This was the moment?

Had she found a flaw?

Would he greenlight it?

Or send it back for revision?

The Institute was a dream that had been brewing for years, a testament to the collective progressive spirit of CSUN.

Aimie: However…? Aimie continued

Aimie: a subtle shift in posture among some indicated a collective brace.

Aimie: we have also discussed the potential challenges: the economic climate, the competition for external grants, the sheer scale of the undertaking.

She leaned forward slightly, her hands clasped on the table.

Aimie: And some have rightly questioned if we are reaching too far, too fast.

The air grew thick with unspoken thoughts.

Aimie Kachingwe, for all her collaborative spirit, was known for her decisive, sometimes uncompromising, vision once she had all the facts.

Then, her eyes softened, but her resolve hardened like tempered steel.

Aimie: My first and final say on this matter," she declared, her voice now ringing with quiet authority that seemed to fill every corner of the room,

Aimie: is this…We will move forward with the Institute for Inclusive Futures.

Aimie: Not only will we launch it, but we will allocate an additional ten percent contingency from the university's strategic reserve, effective immediately.

Aimie: This is not a project we can afford to merely test; it is a commitment we must make wholeheartedly.

A collective, barely perceptible gasp, then a shared exhale of relief and exhilaration.

William Watkins quickly scribbled notes, recalculating.

Aimie: exchanged a triumphant look with Mr.Beck, a silent cheer passing between them.

(Aimie wasn't finished)

Aimie: This isn't just about research or grants. It's about leadership.

Aimie: It's about educating a generation of students who understand that their success is intrinsically linked to the well-being of their communities.

Aimie: It's about demonstrating that education is the most powerful tool for dismantling barriers and building bridges.

Aimie: We are not just building an institute; we are building a legacy."

She stood then, her presence commanding every eye.

Aimie: Let us show the world what an institution led by vision, fueled by collaboration, and dedicated to justice, can achieve.

Aimie: Let’s focus on the future, and may the spirit of Northridge be the beacon for an inclusive future.

Everyone around the table, a formidable assembly of intellectual power, rose to their feet, not just in deference to their President, but in shared purpose.

Aimie Kachingwe hadn't just made a decision; she had charted a course, infused it with unwavering conviction, and rallied every brilliant mind in that room towards a future they were now all irrevocably bound to create.

She had the first word to set the stage, and the final word to define the destiny.

And in that boardroom, full of accomplished scared men, her word was not just final, it was transformative.

After, leaving out the room full of only men with everything she heard, she paused to process everything!

Alone in a room alone away from everyone else, Aimie spoke with Colin Donahue son and his best friend about the virus coming.

Forgetting her phone was on vibration and Micheal had been calling her endlessly, non-stop.

Micheal hung up the phone call with Aimee looking at Kudzai, Nakisa, Thulani, Alex, Brittany, Geri and Stephan.

Not sure who to call next as the Mustang pulled up in front of the house, over onto the drive way.

(Micheal turned the engine off and stepped out the Mustang)

Micheal: Finally Home! (he said to himself, in blessing to his long day)

The shriek of the gulls was a familiar soundtrack to Michael’s end-of-day pilgrimage.

They circled overhead, grey blurs against the fading sun, then dropped to scavenge scraps near the weathered sea wall.

He walked past them, shoulders slumped with a bone-weary fatigue that had nothing to do with physical exertion and everything to do with the slow erosion of his spirit.

The salty air, usually a balm, barely registered.

His destination was a squat, unremarkable house, its only distinguishing feature an imposing, industrial-grey steel door.

(As the key entered the keyhole and turned, the steel door inside begun to close)

As he reached for the handle, a sudden, capricious gust of wind ripped through the air, into his entrance.

The heavy door groaned on its hinges, then slammed shut with an echoing THUD from the inside of the house.

Michael’s hand, a mere inch from its target, froze.

A click, sharp and final, resonated through the stillness.

The automatic lock had engaged.

A slow-dawning horror spread across Michael’s face, quickly morphing into a familiar, weary sigh.

He tried the handle. It was, of course, solid.

(Locked)

He pounded once, a half-hearted attempt, then sagged against the cool metal, defeat heavy in his limbs.

His auto top lock key, he realised with a jolt that felt like a punch to the gut, were on the hook inside.

Through the small window beside the door, he could just make out a slice of his kitchen.

Even from outside, the air seemed thick with the ghost of last night's takeout, the lingering scent of stale coffee, and something else, something vaguely organic and decaying.

He knew what it was, Every surface was a testament to neglect. 

The sink, a ceramic abyss, was a towering monument of crusted plates, greasy saucepans, and overflowing mugs.

Bits of food clung to the porcelain, a mottled, unidentifiable film.

The smell, he knew, was worse inside, a cloying mix of forgotten meals and the damp, earthy tang of mildew.

And then there were the hairballs.

From his vantage point, he could see a particularly egregious one, a woolly, greyish tumbleweed clinging to the leg of a stool near the fridge.

It was just one of many, he knew, that carpeted the floor where the ginger tom, Marmalade, reigned supreme.

The poor cat, a blur of orange and white, now sat on the inside sill, peering out at Michael with wide, golden eyes, as if wondering why his human was suddenly on the wrong side of the door.

Michael closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cold steel.

He was locked out, yes, but the deeper frustration was knowing exactly what he was locked out of.

The chaos, the smell, the endless, undone tasks.

He didn't want to go in, and now he had no choice but to find a way.

The gulls continued their mournful cries, oblivious to the domestic purgatory he was now desperate to re-enter.

Micheal went back to the car to get a wrench bar, but not to open the up door?

Michael walked past the shrieking gulls on the seafront, their raucous calls a cacophony he was eager to leave behind.

He just wanted to get inside, shed the day, and let the quiet embrace him.

He pushed open the heavy, steel-reinforced door to his house.

Before he could fully step over the holes left by the groundhog, before the salt-tinged breeze could even follow him in, he tried once more hoping it would unlock?

The powerful closing mechanism engaged with a hydraulic hiss.

The door swung shut with an echoing, final thud, the deadbolt clicking into place with an almost audible sigh of mechanical satisfaction.

Michael, halfway through, found himself momentarily pinned against the frame, then fully inside, sealed in.

(The auto lock relocked, being the last sound he heard)

The quiet was immediate, but it wasn't the welcoming silence he craved.

It was a thick, oppressive quiet, heavy with the weight of neglect.

(The first assault was olfactory)

A sour, damp tang, a ghost of forgotten meals and stagnant air, wafted from the kitchen.

(He peered in)

The sink was not just full; it was a defiant, glistening mountain range of dirty dishes.

Plates crusted with dried food towered precariously, forks bristled like porcupine quills from a greasy soup bowl, and mugs, stained with a month of coffee rings, overflowed their ceramic banks.

The entire counter seemed to sweat with a film of neglected grime, reflecting the dim light from the window like a swamp.

Micheal: "PJ?" he called, his voice sounding thin in the cloying atmosphere.

A sleek, orange blur wound around his ankles, purring with an almost alarming intensity.

Michael bent to scratch the cat behind the ears, his fingers brushing against a small, surprisingly dense hairball that had settled innocently by the doorframe.

(He knew it wouldn’t be the last.)

PJ, despite his silky fur, was an industrial-scale producer of these discreet, furry tumbleweeds.

Michael spotted another by the bookshelf, and a third, larger one, near the sofa.

(Each a miniature monument to his own procrastination)

Micheal took a seat for a moment to escape the day for a little.

He navigated to the hallway after, stepping over a crumpled magazine and past the overflowing trash can.

Its lid, useless, sat askew atop a bulging bag, revealing a cross-section of spent coffee grounds, takeout containers, and what looked suspiciously like a moldy banana peel.

The stench, a mixture of decomposition and stale air, added another layer to the house's fragrant tapestry.

And then, the inevitable climax to the domestic symphony of despair: the litter box.

(Surrounded by everything that Tinashe left her smell on after touching)

Even from a distance, the sharp, unmistakable ammonia sting confirmed its desperate state.

It sat in the utility room, a solid, crusted block of shame, a testament to PJ's patience and Michael's burgeoning sense of guilt.

Michael leaned back against the wall, which now felt less like a protective barrier and more like a sealed vault.

The cheerful seagulls, the fresh air, the vast expanse of the outside world and all seemed impossibly far away.

He closed his eyes, took a deep, shuddering breath of the house's unique perfume, and sighed.

The cleaning could wait, he’d told himself yesterday.

And the day before that. But the house, in its silent, stinking accusation, had clearly had enough.

The kitchen, usually the heart of the house, was instead its festering ulcer.

A fetid cloud hung heavy in the air, a sickly sweet tang of decaying food and stagnant water emanating from the sink.

There, a leaning tower of plates, bowls, and cutlery shimmered with a greasy sheen, crusted with petrified remnants of meals long past.

A single, intrepid fly buzzed a lazy reconnaissance mission around a forgotten pot.

Beyond the kitchen's miasma, a trail of despair led into the living room.

Here, P.J., the fluffy orange cotton candy ball, lay stretched out in a sunbeam, blissfully oblivious to the miniature, hairy tumbleweeds that had gathered in the corners and under the sofa.

Two particularly egregious hairballs, resembling deflated grey balloons, squatted mournfully by the television stand.

P.J, with a languid stretch, let out a soft purr.

The overflowing trash can by the door looked like a grotesque, multi-layered cake, its plastic liner stretched taut, threatening to rupture.

An empty pizza box teetered precariously on the summit, a monument to a night of defeated intentions.

And then there was the litter box.

Oh, the litter box!

Tucked away in the utility room, its acrid stench permeated the entire house, cutting through even the kitchen's grim aroma.

It was a monument to neglect, a pungent, unmistakable call to action that had been ignored for days.

Michael stood in the doorway of his bedroom, surveying the grim landscape of his home.

(His shoulders slumped)

A wave of exhaustion, deeper than mere physical fatigue, washed over him.

The sheer volume of the mess felt like a physical weight, pressing down on him, suffocating any nascent urge to tackle it.

His eyes grazed over the overflowing bin, flitted past a particularly large hairball, and settled for a moment on the mountainous sink.

He shuddered!!

He could feel the grit on the bottom of his socks, the clammy chill in the air from the lack of airflow.

The guilt was a dull throb behind his temples.

He knew, intellectually, that he should start with the litter box, or at least the trash. But the thought of touching any of it, of truly engaging with the grim reality, was too much with everything mainly on his mind.

Instead, with slow, deliberate steps, Michael walked past the kitchen, past the hall, past the closed utility closet door.

He peeled off his clothes, letting them drop in a heap on the bedroom floor, adding to a pile already there.

He grabbed a fresh towel, the only clean one left, soft thing in his immediate vicinity, and walked into the bathroom.

Just before Michael strolled into the bathroom, the last warm glow from the sun, casted a golden light on his skin.

He felt like he had just rolled out of bed, and the softness of the sheets still lingered on his body.

With a confident stride, he made his way deeper into the mirror, his eyes fixed on the reflection that was about to stare back at him.

As he stopped in front of the glass, a sly smile spread across his face.

He couldn't help but admire the physique that stood before him.

His abs, chiseled from countless hours at the gym, rippled beneath his skin like the gentle waves of a summer ocean.

The definition of his biceps and triceps was a testament to his dedication to fitness, and the broadness of his shoulders framed his face like a work of art.

Michael's gaze wandered, taking in the curves and contours of his body.

He was a masterpiece, a symphony of muscle and sinew that seemed to come alive in the morning light.

His skin, a warm, golden brown, glowed with a healthy radiance, and his beard, messy from sleep, with the smile of whisky coffee added a touch of rugged charm to his appearance.

As he stood there, drinking in his own reflection, Michael felt a sense of pride and satisfaction wash over him.

But it wasn't just about the physical; Michael's confidence and self-assurance had grown in tandem with his body.

He felt empowered, like he could take on the world and conquer any challenge that came his way.

His reflection showed him a strong, capable, and desirable person, and he reveled in the sense of self-love that it inspired.

The house was a shipwreck, testimony to a life that had suddenly veered off course. Pizza boxes, fossilized with forgotten slices, formed small, leaning towers on the coffee table.

A week’s worth of laundry lay in a slumped, mutinous pile by the bathroom door, each garment a silent accusation.

Dust motes danced in the slivers of light that dared to pierce the drawn blinds, performing a lazy ballet over forgotten coffee mugs and abstract patterns of spilled crumbs.

Michael navigated the debris field with the practiced indifference of someone who no longer saw it, or simply lacked the will to care.

His limbs felt weighted, each step a conscious effort against an invisible tide.

It wasn't just the physical exhaustion that pressed down on him, it was the insidious pall that clung to his skin, seeped into his clothes, and whispered from the very air he breathed.

(The dead smell)

It wasn't a literal smell, not really.

Not like decaying food or stale sweat, though those were undoubtedly present in the house's neglected corners.

This was something far deeper, far more pervasive.

It was the scent of absence, of finality, of everything good draining away.

It was the sterile tang of hospital disinfectant, the cloying sweetness of wilting funeral flowers, the damp earth of a freshly dug grave, and the acrid sting of unshed tears.

It was the smell of a life unravelling, of the silence that echoed too loudly in the other empty rooms, and the profound, isolating sadness that had become his only companion.

He stripped slowly out of the depression, letting them become a extra pair of clothes falling in a heap, uncaring if they joined the laundry mountain or not.

His reflection in the fogged bathroom mirror offered little comfort: gaunt cheeks, hollow eyes, a haunted expression he barely recognized as his own.

(He looked like the smell felt)

The shower was his only hope, a desperate, daily ritual.

He turned the handle until the water pulsed out, scalding hot, the steam blooming around him like a desperate, cleansing cloud. He stepped in under the spray, letting the heat prickle his skin, hoping it would burn away the pervasive chill that had settled in his bones. Letting the water wash over him, a temporary, blissful barrier between himself and the overwhelming chaos of everything beyond the shower curtain.

He closed his eyes, inhaling the clean scent of his soap, pretending, just for a few minutes, that nothing else existed.

The mess could wait. It always did.

He reached for the soap, wrapping the bar in a plain white glycerin, and scrubbed.

(Hard!)

He lathered his arms, his chest, his legs, as if trying to abrade the very top layer of his skin, to slough off the memories embedded there.

The soap smelled of nothing much, a clean, neutral scent that was quickly overwhelmed.

He could still smell it!

(The dead smell)

He cupped water in his hands and splashed his face, rinsing away the phantom grime.

He scrubbed his hairy places with a L.A. shampoo until he could feel the mint tingled, imagining each strand being stripped bare of the invisible clinging dust of grief.

He stood under the pounding spray, head bowed, letting the water drum against his back, trying to drown out the silence in his own mind.

Minutes turned into a quarter hour, then longer.

His fingers were pruned, his skin a mottled red from the heat and the vigorous scrubbing. He used every ounce of his remaining energy, every shred of his will, to scour himself clean of this day that he had.

He wanted to emerge reborn, purged, a blank slate perhaps!

He wanted to step out of the steam and find that the world was bright again, that the weight on his shoulders had lifted, that the hollow ache in his chest was gone.

(Finally, the water began to cool)

His muscles ached from the effort, he turned off the tap, plunging the small enclosure into sudden silence, broken only by the drip of water from the faucet.

He stood there for a moment, letting the residual steam cling to him, the clean scent of the soap momentarily present.

He took a slow, deep breath, testing the air.

And then it was there again. Not on his skin, which felt raw and new, but in the air around him, inside him.

(The dead smell)

It had burrowed too deep. It was not a physical stain that could be washed away with soap and water; it was the scent of his soul in mourning, the pervasive aroma of a heart that had been broken beyond immediate repair from what he saw in the casket.

He stepped out onto the bathmat, the cool air raising goosebumps on his wet skin.

He dried himself mechanically, the soft towel a strange contrast to the rough internal landscape.

He was physically clean,

Yes! (sure)

His skin was fresh, his beard damp and soft, but the hollowness remained, the pervasive sense of loss, and the silent, enduring whisper of the dead smell.

He looked around at the still-messy house, a mirror to the chaos within.

The shower had been a brief, futile attempt at external purification.

The real cleansing, he knew with a fresh wave of despair, would have to come from somewhere much, much deeper, and he had no idea where to even begin.

The roar of the shower was Michael's personal starting gun, and for PJ, a sleek shadow of obsidian fur and bright emerald eyes, it was the sound of the gates of Narnia swinging wide.

Michael, bless his chaotic heart, had just stumbled out of the shower, leaving behind a battlefield of crumpled clothes, discarded snack wrappers, and a half-eaten bowl of cereal. A veritable treasure map for a cat with a discerning palate and an insatiable curiosity.

PJ watched, a silent, vibrating sentinel, as Michael navigated the obstacle course of his own making, collected his towel, and vanished into the steamy embrace of the bathroom.

The gush of hot water was a symphony to PJ's ears, growing louder, then settling into a steady, rhythmic hiss while he went over his map of the house in his head.

This was it. The window!

Michael, truly oblivious, had left the bedroom door ajar, a careless invitation.

He’d left his jeans pooled on the rug, a fresh T-shirt draped over a chair, and a pair of particularly enticing discarded socks (still warm!) near the bed.

For PJ, this wasn’t a mess; it was an indoor adventure park designed just for him.

(And the "heaven" part? Oh, it was utterly divine)

As soon as the shower’s rhythm confirmed Michael was fully committed, PJ launched himself from his strategic perch on the windowsill.

First, the socks, he pounced, batting them, then meticulously kneading them into a soft, warm nest.

A low rumble started in his chest, a purr that vibrated the very air around him.

Next, the cereal bowl, Michael in his pre-caffeinated haze, often left a few precious, milk-soggy flakes adhered to the ceramic.

PJ, ever the connoisseur, delicately licked them clean, a tiny, rasping sound against the porcelain.

A triumph!

Then came the main event: the counter.

Usually, this sacred, forbidden territory was patrolled by Tinashe, the house's self-appointed Queen of Order.

But Tinashe was gone for the time being, visiting somewhere, leaving PJ with unfettered reign.

With a powerful leap, PJ landed silently on the kitchen counter.

He sniffed at the toaster, nudged a forgotten pen off the edge (CLATTER!) and then, with a mischievous glint, systematically pushed Michael's half-empty coffee mug perilously close to the edge.

He didn't knock it over, not yet.

That was a thrill best saved for later, or perhaps never, just the delicious potential of it.

He stalked through the living room, a hunter in his own domain.

A blanket had slipped from the sofa, creating a perfect tunnel.

He burrowed in, ambushing invisible prey, his tail twitching excitedly.

Then the dusty space under the sofa, a treasure trove of forgotten toy mice and intriguing dust bunnies, all ripe for the pounce.

PJ was in his element, a furry dictator of disarray.

He surveyed his kingdom from the highest point reachable, atop the precarious stack of magazines Michael had left on the coffee table.

He groomed himself, slow, deliberate licks, his purr a chainsaw of contentment. Every knocked-over book, every scattered crumb, every piece of clothing became a testament to his absolute, glorious freedom.

But as the sound of the shower began to diminish, a different note crept into PJ's symphony of joy.

(The bittersweet)

The house, usually alive with the gentle murmur of Michael talking to himself, or Tinashe's humming, was unnervingly quiet.

The mess, while glorious, was a monument to Michael's absence.

The socks were warm, yes, but they weren't Michael's feet.

The counter was liberating, but there was no hand to cautiously stroke his back, no soft voice murmuring, "PJ, you little menace."

No more cuddles under Tinashe playing the Play Station 9

He jumped down from the magazines, the earlier thrill beginning to wane.

He went to the bedroom again, now truly quiet, save for the drip-drip of water from Michael's still-wet body in the bathroom.

Michael would be out soon, then he'd be gone, off to work.

The chaos would remain, a temporary monument to his departure, but the warmth of his presence would vanish with the click of the front door.

PJ found Michael's recently shed bathrobe crumpled on the bathroom floor.

Its terrycloth loops were soft, warm, still carrying the faint, comforting scent of Michael.

He curled into it, kneading the fabric slowly.

The purr returned, but it was softer now, laced with a familiar ache.

Heaven, indeed.

The freedom, the forbidden zones, the delicious crumbs.

But oh, the bittersweet knowledge that this glorious, unsupervised chaos was born of absence, and would end when

Tinashe returning brought order, or when Michael himself returned to earth, bringing not just his messy comfort, but his very presence back into PJ's world.

For now, he would close his eyes, soak in the last vestiges of Michael’s warmth, and dream of future glorious messes.

The silence of the house had a distinct quality when Tinashe was gone.

It wasn't just quiet; it was a vast, echoing expanse of unspoken rules being gleefully ignored.

Michael, left to his own devices, had embraced this freedom with the enthusiasm of a released prisoner.

For the past week, the sofa had gradually transformed into a multi-tiered fortress of takeout containers, discarded gaming controllers, and various items of clothing that had bravely attempted to make it to the laundry basket but had ultimately fallen short.

The kitchen sink resembled an archaeological dig site, each plate a stratum of forgotten meals.

Sleep schedules were a myth, replaced by the glowing blue light of a screen well into the early hours.

And then there was PJ!

PJ, the perfect cat who usually maintained an air of dignified aloofness under Tinashe's watchful eye, had blossomed into a creature of pure, unadulterated mischief.

With…Tinashe doors were closed, food was put away, and mischief was met with a firm, "PJ, no!"

With…Michael, doors were often ajar, interesting smells wafted from unsealed bags, and "PJ, no!" was usually followed by a soft head scratch and a muttered, "Aw, just five more minutes, buddy.”

(But he did shout as if Pj cared)

PJ had taken full advantage, he’d discovered the thrill of batting pens off tables, the secret joy of unspooling an entire toilet paper roll, and the exquisite pleasure of scaling the mountain of soft furnishings Michael called a bed.

He gained weight, his fur a little shinier from the illicit nibbles of Michael’s forgotten snacks.

(or KitCat)

PJ, who had been observing from the strategic vantage point of the laundry pile on the floor, watched Michael leave the room.

Michael looked at the mess, then at PJ, then at the calendar on his phone.

The carefree days of "whatever he wanted" crashed down around him, replaced by the cold, hard dread of Tinashe's impending return.

He had visions of a spotless house, a freshly bathed cat, and an expression of innocent bewilderment on his own face.

It was going to be a long, frantic night.

And PJ, stretched out on the duvet, was already plotting his next adventure. After all, all the hell made Michael deal with, it was fair game.

Especially when Tinashe was gone.

(Because if she was home, Pj would not care about Micheal)

The pain lashed against the mausoleum that was Michael ancestral home, each drop a percussive beat on the stained glass.

Agent Thorne, a man chiselled from granite and tempered by a decade of black ops, adjusted his comms piece.

Agent Thorne: Entry confirmed!

Agent Thorne: No visible security. (His voice was a low growl of professional competence.)

His briefing had called Michael an "eccentric recluse" with "an unusual affinity for Rube Goldberg devices." Thorne had scoffed.

(A grown man playing with toys? Child’s play)

The back door, surprisingly, was unlocked.

Thorne pushed it open, stepping into a foyer swallowed by shadows.

A faint, cloying scent of beeswax and something metallic had hung in the air.

(He took two steps)

CRUNCH!

Not a tripwire, but a thin, almost invisible sheet of pressure-activated ceramic.

It shattered under his boot, triggering a cascade.

From the ceiling, a heavy net descended faster than Thorne could react, snagging him around the chest and arms.

He thrashed, cursing, as it hoisted him a foot off the ground.

A mechanical whirring started, and the net began to rotate slowly, like meat on a spit.

Thorne’s expletives echoed in the cavernous space.

Agent Thorne: This was… unexpected!

He managed to unholster his sidearm, firing a frantic shot that tore through the net but failed to sever the steel cables.

As he struggled, a hidden panel in the wall slid open to reveal a series of high-powered nozzles.

A viscous, green goo began to spray, coating him from head to toe.

(It smelled faintly of rotten eggs and elderflower)

Agent Thorne: Amateur! Thorne roared, his voice muffled by the goo.

Agent Thorne: You think this will stop me, Micheal?

He finally ripped himself free, landing with a squelch on the polished marble.

The goo was incredibly sticky, making his movements sluggish.

He left a trail of green slime with every step.

As Agent Thorne stepped into the musty darkness of Michael House, the eerie silence was a stark contrast to the cacophony of chaos that erupted outside.

His black ops team, handpicked for their exceptional skills and ruthlessness, were now screaming for mercy as they succumbed to the deadly traps that guarded the entrance.

Thorne's eyes adjusted to the dim light, and he took in the surroundings with a practiced gaze.

The air was thick with the scent of decay and rot, and cobwebs clung to the chandeliers like macabre tapestries.

Thorne felt that Michael house was a labyrinth of death, designed to test the limits of human endurance and cunning.

The architect, a reclusive millionaire with a penchant for the sadistic, had spared no expense in creating a fortress that would annihilate any would-be intruders.

The screams outside grew louder, more desperate.

Thorne's team, trained to withstand torture and pain, were now begging for a swift end to their suffering.

Thorne could not imagine the scene so he did not look back: men writhing in agony, their bodies torn apart by the merciless traps that had been triggered by their careless entry.

Thorne's expression remained impassive, but a spark of curiosity ignited within him.

What drove men like his team to underestimate the dangers that lay around and within Michael house?

Was it arrogance, or a simple lack of imagination?

He knew that he had to be more cautious, more calculated in his approach.

As he ventured deeper into the house, the shadows seemed to writhe and twist around him, like living darkness.

Thorne's senses were on high alert, his ears straining to detect the slightest whisper of a trap, his eyes scanning the surroundings for any hint of danger.

He moved with a deliberate slowness, his footsteps echoing through the deserted halls like a death knell.

Every step, every movement, was a calculated risk.

Thorne knew that one misstep could prove fatal, that the house was designed to exploit even the slightest weakness.

But he was no ordinary agent, and he had a reputation for being untouchable.

The question was, would Michael be the one to finally bring him down?

The screams outside had stopped, replaced by an unsettling silence.

Thorne's team was either dead or dying to sundown, and he was now alone in the house.

Thorne smiled to himself, a cold, mirthless smile

The game had just begun, and he was ready to play.

With a deep breath, Thorne disappeared from the outside light into the depths of Michael’s house, ready to face whatever horrors lay within.

The house, sensing his presence, seemed to stir, its secrets and traps waiting to be unleashed.

The battle between Thorne and the house had commenced, and only one could emerge victorious.

Nervous in the house, while his team outside souls exit the bodies.

Thorne initial confidence replaced by a simmering fury.

(The hallway stretched long and dark)

SQUISH! 

(Thorne looked down). He’d stepped into a shallow, hidden basin filled with what felt suspiciously like live earthworms. His groan was involuntary.

From above, a trapdoor opened silently, and a large, padded sack plummeted down, engulfing him head to toe.

He was suddenly in suffocating darkness, the scent of must and dust filling his nostrils. The sack, it seemed, was designed to stick to the slime, adhering to him like a second skin. He could barely move, bound by the unholy combination of goo and padded canvas.

He stumbled forward, a green, worm-encrusted, vaguely human shape, bumping into what felt like a wall.

A faint click, and the "wall" began to tilt inward. It wasn’t a wall at all, but a disguised ramp.

He slid, ungracefully, into complete darkness, the sound of his own flailing amplified.

He landed with a muffled thump on something springy.

Before he could orient himself, a series of jets embedded in the floor activated, blasting him with compressed air, spinning him around like a deranged top.

He collided with unseen objects, hearing ceramic crack and glass shatter.

His comms unit crackled, then went dead.

A sudden, sharp pain in his ankle. He’d stepped into a classic bear trap, cleverly disguised beneath a Persian rug.

The steel teeth, while not quite breaking bone, clamped down with enough force to send agony shooting up his leg.

He cried out, a raw, uncharacteristic yelp of pain.

From somewhere above, a low, melodic chuckle drifted down.

Bravo Thorne: “Bravo, Thorne!” a cultured voice called out, thin and clear, like a violin string.

Agent Thorne: A splendid prelude!

Agent Thorne, now a writhing, green, worm-covered, canvas-wrapped, dazed, and injured heap, managed to lift his head.

He was in what appeared to be the grand ballroom, dimly lit by a single, swinging chandelier.

Every surface seemed to shimmer with a faint, oily sheen.

Across the room, Michael stood on a raised dais, impeccably dressed in day to day clothing, a wrench bar in his right hand and a glass of amber liquid in his other hand.

Micheal: So you the one who was playing with my door lock?

He wasn't even looking at Thorne. His eyes were closed, his head cocked, as if listening to something only he could hear!

(Tinashe Voice)

Micheal: Why are you in my house?

Suddenly, a series of hidden speakers burst to life.

But it wasn't music.

It was a recorded loop of Thorne's increasingly frantic cries from the net, his muffled curses from the goo, his involuntary groan from the worms, his confused gasps from the sack, his dazed grunts from the spinning chamber, and finally, his sharp yelp from the bear trap.

Each sound was layered, looped, and subtly distorted, almost like a grotesque symphony.

Thorne: Whats behind the Metal door,thats the real question? (Spit flying out his mouth)

Michael finally opened his eyes, a serene smile gracing his lips.

Micheal: Ah, the aria of surprise, he murmured, taking a sip from his glass.

Micheal: So unexpected, so… pure.

Thorne tried to move, but the bear trap held him fast, and the slime-stuck canvas had finally dried, rendering him stiff and immobile.

He was trapped, utterly defeated, a pathetic, grunting, green-and-brown lump in the middle of a ballroom.

Michael put the wrench bar down to send a gestured with his free hand, like a conductor. Another trap activated, unseen.

This time, dozens of small, high-pressure nozzles hidden in the walls began to spray. Not goo, not water. This was liquid nitrogen.

A sudden, bone-chilling cold encased Thorne.

The green slime, the canvas, the very air around him, began to freeze.

His muscles locked, his movements ceased. He could feel the frostbite setting in, a horrifying, numb sensation.

He tried to scream, but only a frozen, wheezing sound escaped his lips.

Michael closed his eyes again, a look of sublime rapture on his face.

“And now,” he whispered, his voice barely audible above the chilling hiss of the nitrogen,

Micheal:…Where is Tinashe?

(the glorious crescendo of despair)

The frozen wheeze, the metallic clatter of the bear trap, the faint, high-pitched whine of the freezing spray, and the earlier loops of Thorne’s suffering combined into a haunting, disembodied chorus.

To Agent Thorne, it was the sound of his mission’s catastrophic failure, the ultimate humiliation.

To Michael it was a magnificent, chilling opera, and his trapped captive was finally, perfectly, hitting all the right notes.

As the aroma of sizzling bacon and fresh coffee curled through Michael’s kitchen, a domestic counterpoint to the operatic crescendo swelling from the antique gramophone in the corner.

Puccini’s ‘Nessun Dorma’ swelled, full and glorious, filling the sundown dim drenched room with its powerful lament and triumph. Michael, worn slippers, hummed along, his movements precise as he reached for a bowl after putting the whisky on the counter.

Agent Thorne: So you was cooking breakfast while…Outside, a different kind of symphony was unfolding for us.

Micheal: Yes…You entered on my property, you know cops are gone unless in the towns below.

P.J: Meow!

(P.J randomly agreed from above, watching it all unfold)

CRASH! a sound like a small car hitting a very large, very springy trampoline, followed by a grunt of surprise.

Michael chuckled, a low, satisfied sound in his throat, as if he did not hear anything.

He plucked two eggs from a ceramic bowl, their shells cool and smooth beneath his fingertips. 

Crack! the first egg split cleanly, its contents sliding into the waiting bowl.

A moment later, a high-pitched metallic shriek, like a banshee trapped in an oil drum, ripped through the sad air.

It was followed by a desperate scrabble, a choked cry of something less dignified than a curse, and then a resounding.

THWACK!

Michael’s lips curved upwards.

Ah, your fine…just the old grease-slicked ball bearings under the collapsing floorboards,” he murmured, a glint in his eye.

He cracked the second egg, the little snap of the shell a delicate pop amidst the mounting chaos beyond his window.

The yolks, plump and orange, nestled against the pearly whites.

He picked up a whisk.

Micheal: you maybe wondering how can i cook in the smell but i’ve learned to ignore it.

Agent Thorne: What smell?

(Thinking Micheal was out of control)

Then came the real music: a deep, resonant rumble, a sickening crack, and a truly magnificent, drawn-out bellow of agony.

It was the sound of Micheal, thoroughly surprised by suddenly a plummeting, agony blossoming into pure, unadulterated terror.

As Agent Thorne got FREE!

???: No, no, no! Not the… not the… AAAAAAAHHHHHH!

"Please... just... let me!… I give up! I give up!"

SNAP!

The scream, initially a roar, tapered off into a series of gurgles and gasps, punctuated by the rhythmic drip-drip-drip of something unpleasant hit the ground.

Michael’s whisk beat the eggs into a creamy, pale yellow froth, the gentle swish-swish a soothing rhythm against the backdrop of the captive’s distress.

The orchestra of Agent Thorne’s humiliation, frustration, and now, sheer terror, was, to Michael, more satisfying than any composed by man. Each fresh shriek, each frustrated curse, each desperate plea for mercy, was a perfectly timed note in the real opera of the morning.

He turned to the stove, where a cast-iron pan shimmered with hot fat. From the laid bacon strips in with care.

SSSSSSZZZZZZZZZ. (The sound of rendered pork fat meeting searing heat at a over cook)

Another desperate, watery gurgle sounded from the agent, then a faint, ragged plea as he took his final word.

Michael simply smiled, watching the bacon curl and crisp.

The fat popped and spat, a joyful, crackling counter-melody to Puccini’s grand finale.

Agent Thorne's little struggle were merely to the percussion section, building to his perfect, golden-brown late breakfast.

A perfect end to a loose rope day.

Micheal pulled a chair from the kitchen table, dragging it into the hallway, parking it front of the pathway to the METAL door.

The opulent, if slightly ostentatious, chair was now less a piece of furniture and more an abstract canvas of crimson.

Michael, slumped deep within a embrace, looking pale, his usually ruddy cheeks a waxy grey.

A dark, rapidly expanding stain blossomed on his pristine white shirt, just below his ribs. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps.

As the front door… Unlocks?

Who was entering the house???

Ext: Nakisa In the car with the stranger

The air of the abandoned area was a cold with a tasting of peace and forgotten ambitions.

Niksa’s breath plumed out in ragged clouds, merging with the peace dancing in the faint shafts of sickly light filtering through a grimy skylight high above.

Every drip of condensed water that was coming from the vast, skeletal pipes overhead echoed like a gunshot in the cavernous space, amplifying the silence andamplifying her dread.

She had been in the car for an hour, maybe two.

Time blurred in this place, a relic of a bygone industrial age, now a perfect hideout for secrets.

Her jacket, a practical, dark canvas, did little against the pervasive chill that seeped into her bones.

Her fingers, though gloved, still felt numb.

This was it? The final, desperate lead after years of fruitless searching.

(Tinashe!!!)

The name was a prayer, a curse, etched into Niksa’s very being.

It had been more than five years since Tinashe had vanished.

Not just disappeared, but simply ceased to exist.

No one knew where she’d gone, or why?

The authorities had given up, the world had moved on with it being okay, as long as something was give with her name attached to it.

Niksa couldn't… Tinashe wasn't just someone!

She was Niksa’s anchor, her closest friend, her sister in all, but blood is what made it FOREVER.

And Niksa knew, with an unshakeable conviction, that Tinashe hadn't chosen to disappear.

Niksa: Are We there yet?

Driver: You're persistent," a voice rasped, low and dry, like grinding gears. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

Driver: Most would have forgotten her by now.

Niksa’s jaw tightened.

Niksa: I don't forget. Not Tinashe.

Her voice was steady, betraying none of the frantic hope that hammered in her chest.

Niksa pops the little panda off her keychain, dropping it on the floor of the car that became a taxi to Tinashe. (Hopefully)

Niksa paced her hand over her scar from the car crash back in 2025

(A flashback of Remembrance to life)

Niksa thought back further to The winter of 2023

The name Claire & Niksa made up for Stephan.

Niksa: You said you had information.

Niksa: About where she is.

The man was silent for a long moment…

Driver: Information is rarely free, Niksa. And this… this is not a simple address.

Niksa: Name your price, Niksa said, her hand instinctively going to the small, weighted pouch inside her jacket from her clothing line.

(It contained everything she had)

A soft, almost imperceptible chuckle emanated from beneath the hat.

Driver: Money?

Driver: This goes beyond coin.

Driver: You want Tinashe?

Driver: You'll need more than that." He took a slow turn closer to the location.

Driver: She wasn't lost, Niksa.

Driver: She was… taken!

Niksa felt a cold dread blossom in her stomach, even though a part of her had always suspected.

Niksa: By whom? Why?

Driver: She saw too much, Knew too much.

Driver: Uncovered pieces of a puzzle few even know exists.

The man’s voice dropped, becoming a near-whisper.

Driver: They couldn't silence her, not entirely.

Driver: Tinashe is… unique.

Driver: So they took her where she could do no harm, and where no one would ever find her.

Niksa: Where? Niksa demanded, her voice sharp with a desperate edge.

Niksa: Tell me where she is!

The man raised a gloved hand, pointing towards the far wall, where a section of ancient brickwork seemed to shimmer subtly in the gloom.

Driver: She is not in a place, Niksa.

Driver: She is of a place.

Niksa: A facility?

Driver: Something more hidden beneath the city, beneath layers of false infrastructure, beyond the reach of any map or satellite."

Niksa stared at the wall, then back at the man. "What facility? Give me a name."

Driver: They call it Archivum, he supplied, the name sounding ancient and foreboding.

Driver: A place that stores information, knowledge, and those who possess too much of it.

Driver: Tinashe is there!

Driver: Preserved. Maintained. But not free.

The truth, when it finally arrived, was a blow.

Not dead, but not alive either. Just… stored.

Niksa felt a surge of rage, cold and pure.

Niksa: How do I get her out?

The man tilted his head slightly, a fraction of his shadowed face catching the faint light.
A sharp jawline, nothing more)

Driver: "That, Niksa, is the part of the price you must pay.

Driver: The Archivum is a fortress. Its guardians are… formidable.

Driver: Its secrets are deadly.

Driver: To enter, to navigate, to extract Tinashe… you will need an ingenuity, a ruthlessness, and a willingness to sacrifice that few possess.

He paused, letting his words hang in the cold air.

Driver: I laid the path for you. I told you the truth no one else would.

Driver: The rest is on you. If you truly want her back after all this time, you must become the force that can shatter the world she is kept in.

Without another word, the unknown man turned the car right. He didn't say another word

Niksa sat alone in the chilling silence. The cold embrace felt different now.

No longer a place of desperate hope, but the launching pad for a war she hadn't known she was fighting.

Tinashe wasn't just missing; she was a prisoner of a secret world?

And Niksa, after all this time, finally had a direction.

The unknown man had given her a name, a target.

She would find ‘The Archivum’

And she would bring Tinashe home.

And as the distant echoes faded from the world she only knew, a whole new resolve hardened in Niksa’s eyes.

The car stops!

Driver: We are here, so look alive and open your eyes!

Ext: Stephen & Nakisa House

Stephen opened his eyes to no sun in the sky, as it slowly becomes night blue.

From a dream of him at some point of being very quiet but brave enough to asked “Can I… kiss you Nakisa?”

The first thing Stephan felt was the weight of his own head pressing into the soft, sagging cushion of the couch, as if the furniture itself were trying to keep him in place.

A low, metallic clang rang out from the television—a faint, tinny echo that cut through the haze of his half‑awake thoughts.

The screen was awash in the buttery gold of a 19th‑century stage, a regiment of tiny wooden soldiers marching in perfect, obsessive cadence.

The Nutcracker, in all its glittering, sugar‑spiced glory, was mid‑dance, the ballerina’s skirt a blur of tulle, the mouse king’s eyes glittering with a mischievous menace.

It was absurdly festive for all ballerina lovers, and yet it seemed the only thing that could have been on when Stephan crashed onto the couch after his night out with his brother in law after that ridiculous karaoke contest in the car.

He blinked, and the room reassembled itself: the stale smell of cheap socks, the faint trace of cinnamon from the leftover gingerbread tea on the coffee table, the soft buzz of light humming just above his head.

The couch, a loyal accomplice to his late‑night escapades, had turned into a makeshift bed, the blanket draped over his legs now a tangled mess of denim and the occasional stray sock.

A tiny vibration pulsed against his thigh.

He lifted a hand, still half‑glued to the couch, and saw the glowing green icon of a missed call.

The name on the screen stared back at him like a question mark: Nakisa Kachingwe.

The Nutcracker’s music swelled, a cascade of violins that made his heart thrum a beat he didn’t recognize.

He could almost hear the clatter of wooden claws on the stage, feel the icy breath of the snowflake fairy dancing across the screen.

While his mind tried to settle on the absurdity of the moment, a man, half‑asleep, on a couch, the Nutcracker playing in the background, a missed call from a woman who’d been a map of his future created an odd calm settled in his chest.

He reached for the phone, his thumb hovering over the answer button, feeling the weight of the silence that followed each missed call.

The world outside the apartment was a muted gray; the street below was still drenched from the emptiness of quick showers that had left a glossy sheen on the pavement.

Inside, the TV’s amber glow painted his face in the colors of a bygone holiday, the kind of nostalgia that made you both smile and ache.

Stephan: Hey

(he said into the void, his voice hoarse)

Stephan: what’s up???

The line clicked, and Nakisa’s voice hard to hear but soft, a little rushed, like she had been walking through a crowded terminal…that bubbled through.

The Nutcracker’s snow swirled on the screen, and in that moment, the music, the missed call, the lingering scent of gingerbread tea, and the soft hum of the refrigerator combined into a tableau that felt like a secret handshake between past and present.

Stephan’s eyes widened, and a smile, half‑sleep‑induced, half‑genuine, unfurled across his face.

Stephan: I Love You, he murmured, as the ballerina leapt into a grand jeté, and the couch, the television, the missed call, all conspired to pull him back from the edge of random words into a conversation that might just rewrite the script of his next chapter.

But after three words the line went flat…Stephan called back but the service had been disconnected?

End Of Chapter

Act 2: Watch, when I get HIM Alone!

Ext: The Billboard Ghost of Los Angeles

The sun had already turned the freeways into molten ribbons when the first billboard flickered to life on the 101, just past the Griffith Observatory.

It was a colossal, chrome‑sized portrait of a woman whose fearless smile seemed to be made of sunrise, half‑lit, half‑shadowed, impossible to read.

Above her, in a font that glowed like neon tide, the single word pulsed: Tinashe Bard.

By noon the city’s veins were clogged with her face.

Every corner of Sunset, every block of Hollywood, every abandoned lot on Crenshaw sprouted a new incarnation of the same mystery.

One showed her in a vintage 1970s leather jacket, humming into a mic that didn’t exist.

Everywhere!

Another rendered her as a holographic silhouette, dripping neon paint over the façade of an abandoned laundromat.

A third had her perched on a rooftop, looking down at the maze of streets below with eyes that seemed to absorb the whole city in a single glance.

Even a 3d poster !

No one had ever seen Tinashe in person.

Her name, whispered in coffee shops and shouted from the back seats of Uber rides, felt like a mantra.

“Did you see the billboard on Tinashe?” a barista asked Micheal once, wiping a latte foam‑stained counter as if it were a confession.

“She’s everywhere,” a barista he repeated before Micheal could replied, even the guys juggling fire torches while a crowd of cyclists filmed the scene for their TikTok feeds knew they was not as important.

The rumors grew like vines, each one strangling the old with the new, feeding on the city’s appetite for secrets.

“She’s a pop star who vanished after her debut album,” claimed a teenage blogger, posting a grainy screenshot of a black‑and‑white photo that could be a 1960s press shoot.

“She’s a hologram created by a tech startup to test AI‑driven advertising,” murmured a tech‑savvy commuter, scrolling through a LinkedIn post titled “Revolutionizing Brand Presence with Synthetic Influencers.”
“She’s an urban legend, a ghost who haunts the city’s advertising billboards, demanding our attention,” whispered an older woman in a laundromat, eyes fixed on the flickering image of Tinashe in a rain‑splashed trench coat.

The rumors became the biggest wonder.

People stopped asking, “Where is Tinashe?” and started asking, “What does she want?”

The answer, of course, was never simple.

she was a girl (and like all the others she wanted everything, before she leave earth)

One night, after a rainstorm had washed the neon colors from the streets into a glossy black mirror, a small crowd gathered under the billboard on Melrose.

The wind hummed through the steel girders, and the billboard’s LED eyes flickered, as if blinking. A low, resonant voice pulsed from the speaker system in a tone somewhere between a sigh and a chant.

“I am the echo of a city that never sleeps. I am the thousand faces you see on the screen, the countless dreams you chase on the boulevard. I am the question you ask, the story you tell. Look beyond the surface, and you will find yourself reflected here.”

The crowd fell silent, the kind of silence that feels like a held breath before a wave crashes. A teenage girl, clutching a notebook filled with lyrics, whispered to herself, “She’s us.”

When the sun rose the next morning, the billboard would be gone.

In its place, a simple white wall stretched across the building, the paint fresh and unblemished.

Yet, if you leaned close, you could still see the faintest outline of a smile, the ghost of a neon pulse, the echo of a name that had stitched itself into the very fabric of Los Angeles.

Tinashe never appeared in flesh, never rode a limousine down Wilshire, never signed another contract in a glistening office.

She was the city’s whispered promise that somewhere, amid the billboards, the traffic, the palm shaded avenues, there was always a story waiting to be told and that the most powerful advertisement was the mystery itself.

In the weeks that followed, the billboards returned, but now they displayed ordinary things, coffee shops, yoga studios, an indie film festival.

Yet every passerby, every commuter, every wanderer would pause a fraction longer, eyes scanning the horizon for that familiar glint of impossible allure.

And somewhere, hidden behind the glow of a thousand LEDs, the legend of Tinashe lingered, humming like a bass line beneath the city’s endless chorus.

The biggest wonder, after all, was not where she was, but why we kept looking?

(Before Tinashe vanished)

The applause was a currency she’d long since stopped cashing in on.

Tinashe heart still thrummed with bass and adoration, but in her bones, she felt only the hollow clink of a coin drop into an ever-deepening well.

She would think about about a lot in them long studio sessions alone!

The countless days of intimacy was a lot but never to much for the love she had for music as a whole.

And with another producer, it took more out of her to give them all of she felt before wondering how they real felt ?

She often would think about life and will it ever be enough?

They wanted the next single, the next dance, the next piece of her to package and sell.

The greed wasn’t malicious; it was systemic, a hungry gravity she orbited.

but little did the world know

Her sanctuary was a room with no windows, tucked behind a false wall in her home studio.

It smelled not of hairspray and stale beer, but of ozone, flux, and the faint, sweet scent of melting plastic. Here, the only currency was curiosity.

Tonight, she was a surgeon of discarded dreams.

On her workbench lay a slab of polished black quartz she’d repurposed would lay the harvested organs of defunct entertainment.

A cracked casing from a Dreamcast, its silver logo tarnished.

The delicate, green-hued motherboard of a PlayStation Vita, its traces like a miniature city.

A pile of lenses from a dozen broken VR headsets, each a distorted eye.

And her tools: a fine-tipped soldering iron that hissed like an angry cat named P.J, a set of micro-screwdrivers worn smooth by her thumb, and spools of conductive thread thinner than spider-silk.

This was her real braiding.

Not melodies, but circuits.

Not lyrics, but logic gates.

Her current obsession was a pair of goggles, cobbled from the husks of three different systems.

The days went by with all the solo testing on her escaping the world.

One provided the memory buffer of a PlayStation Portable, another the motion-sensor of an Oculus DK1, and the third was the stripped-down processor from a Nintendo 3DS that would handle the rendering.

She called it the Ouroboros Interface.

It ate its own tail: using the computational ghosts of obsolete games to build something entirely new.

Her music brain was tired. It was a singer, a performer, a vessel for other people’s projections.

But her science brain was wide awake, humming with a different frequency.

It was the part of her that saw the world as a series of problems waiting for elegant solutions.

With a jeweler’s loupe clamped to her eye, she guided the soldering iron.

A tiny of connection.

The Vita’s memory chip, patient zero, was now in dialogue with the 3DS’s GPU.

She wasn’t just wiring; she was diplomacy between generations of silicon.

She thought of producers fighting over her vocal stems, of label heads debating her social media metrics.

For her ‘here’, there was no argument.

Tinashe took her time!

A 1.8-volt line either held or it didn’t.

The universe was negotiable, but the current was absolute.

She powered it on, the only light in the room the faint, sickly pulse from a diagnostic LED.

The homemade goggles, held aloft by an articulated arm of her own design, whirred to life.

A soft, static-filled shiver danced across the lenses.

Then, it resolved.

Not into a game.

Not into a simulation.

But into a silent, infinite black plane.

And in the center, a single, perfect, rotating tesseract, a hypercube, a rendered in wireframe.

It was beautiful, useless, and entirely hers.

No algorithm would recommend it.

No playlist could contain it.

No one had demanded it.

She had built a universe with a keyhole only she could look through, using the broken promises of a billion discarded entertainment units.

(But deep in her mind)

She slipped the goggles on.

The world of platinum plaques and streaming counts vanished, replaced by the quiet, profound geometry of her own making.

The tesseract spun, its vertices piercing dimensions she could only sense as a pressure behind her eyes.

This was the escape not from fame, but from transaction.

Here, the only value was the integrity of a closed loop, the beauty of a solved equation.

She didn’t move.

She just sat in what would soon be the dark, watching a shape that existed in more than three dimensions, built from the ghost-metal of forgotten consoles.

The greed of the world couldn’t touch this.

They could have her songs, her image, her time.

But they could never have this!

The silent, clicking hum of a mind that, when cornered by the hunger of others, simply built a new room, with a new door, and locked it from the inside with a key of her own design.

She took a slow breath.

The smell of solder was her incense.

The buzz of the prototype was her choir.

For now, this was enough.

More than enough.

It was whole like wishing on a star.

Int: Aimie & Micheal

As Aimie delicately draped the sheet over the lifeless body of the black ops agent, a sense of morbid solemnity settled over the kitchen.

After being the only one to know about the virus coming, Aimie only can wonder if this was all to be sure she stayed silence?

The agent's eyes, once bright and calculating, now stared blankly into the void, a grim reminder of the high stakes and deadly consequences of their clandestine world.

Aimie's movements were economical and precise, a testament to her own training and experience in handling such situations.

She had seen her fair share of death and destruction, but it never got any easier.

As she carefully cleaned up the splatters of blood and the shattered remains of a broken coffee cup, Aimie's mind began to wander to the events that had led to this moment.

The agent, whose name was Ryder Throne, had been a skilled operative, but even the best could fall.

The memory of Michael's battered and bruised body, lying limp and unresponsive sitting on the chair just hours before she walked in, still lingered in her mind.

The sound of his labored breathing, the feel of his cold skin, and the overwhelming fear that she might lose him had all combined to create a sense of desperation and urgency.

But Michael was a fighter, and with Aimie's quick thinking and medical expertise, he had pulled through.

As she busied herself making a soothing orange ginger tea, the aroma wafting from the kettle was a comforting balm to her frazzled nerves.

She added a squeeze of fresh orange juice and a drizzle of honey, just the way Michael liked it.

The ritual of making tea was a small act of normalcy in a world that had been turned upside down.

As she poured the steaming liquid into a cup, Amy heard the creak of the floorboards behind her.

Michael was stirring, his eyes fluttering open as he struggled to sit up. Amy rushed to his side, helping him up and guiding him to the kitchen table.

He looked pale and drawn, but his eyes sparkled with a hint of humor as he took in the scene before him.

Micheal: "Throne?" he whispered, his voice husky from disuse.

Amy nodded solemnly, her eyes never leaving his face.

Aimie: Micheal what happen?

Michael's gaze drifted to the sheet-covered body, and for a moment, he just sat there, taking it all in.

Then, with a quiet determination, he reached out and took the cup of tea from Amy's hands.

The warmth of the liquid and the citrusy scent seemed to revive him, and he took a sip, his eyes closing in appreciation.

Thinking back?

Aimie

The opulent, if slightly ostentatious, armchair was now less a piece of furniture and more an used weapon into a human skull.

Michael, slumped deep embrace, looked pale, his usually ruddy cheeks becoming a waxy grey.

A dark, rapidly expanding stain blossomed on his pristine white shirt, just below his ribs.

His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps.

Aimie, hands trembling, pressed a balled-up dish towel against the wound.

Aimie: i removed the blade, not much damage

Aimie: It was doing little good…

(It sounded like a echo to micheal)

Her own silk blouse was splattered, her usually neat hair falling in frantic wisps around her face.

Yet, amidst the horror, her voice was surprisingly sharp, almost indignant.

Aimie: See?

Aimie: This is what I was talking about, Michael! she snapped, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and exasperation.

Aimie: "This!

Aimie: This is why we needed the reinforced door!

Aimie: Not this flimsy excuse for a barrier that Barry next door could kick in after a few too many lagers!

Michael coughed in laughter, a wet, rattling sound.

Micheal: It's… it once was once a solid oak door, Aimie, he wheezed, a faint, almost amused glint in his watering eyes.

Micheal: And besides, he didn't kick it in.

Micheal: He just, well, he sort of… opened it.

Aimie: "He opened it because you didn't double bolt it!"

Aimie retorted, pressing harder on the wound, earning not even a strangled cry from Michael.

Aimie: I told you! Every night!

Aimie: Michael, did you remember the double bolt?

Aimie: And what did you say?

Micheal: Oh, Amy, who's going to bother us?

We live on a cul-de-sac! Our biggest threat is Mrs. Henderson's prize-winning petunias!'"

Micheal: We?

A gurgle escaped Michael's lips, followed by a weak, blood-tinged chuckle.

Micheal: Well, to be fair, he managed, his voice barely a whisper, he didn't touch the petunias.

Micheal: And he certainly wasn't Mrs. Henderson.

Aimie: That's not the point, Michael!

Aimie cried, tears finally pricking her eyes…

She pulled out her phone, fumbling with it.

They’ll say five minutes!

Micheal: It's been seven!

(This is ridiculous!)

Micheal: Perhaps… perhaps they’re stuck in traffic? Michael offered, trying to shift, grimacing in pain.

Micheal: You know how the bypass gets after… what time is it?"

Aimie: Who cares what time it is Michael, please don't close your eyes!

Aimie voice hitched on a sob.

Aimie: Just stay with me.

Aimie: Stay awake!

Aimie: And for the record, this whole 'trust humanity' thing? (Total bust)

Aimie: Complete and utter failure. What did you even say to him?

Micheal: I… I tried to offer him… a cup of tea, Michael confessed, a faint blush briefly coloring his ashen cheeks.

Micheal: Thought it might de-escalate the situation. You know, human connection and all that.

Aimie: Funny that is not your thing!

Amy stared at him, aghast.

Aimie: A cup of tea? Michael, he had a knife!

Aimie: A rather large, shiny one, I might add!

The one that's was apparently residing in your spleen!"

Micheal: Liver, actually, I think!

Michael corrected weakly, a pained wince distorting his features.

Micheal: Based on the… the trajectory… and the general discomfort.

Micheal: Not that I'm complaining, mind you.

Micheal: Just for accuracy…

Aimie: Oh, for heaven's sake, Michael, now is not the time for anatomical precision!

Amy shrieked, walking away pressing her ear to the door, listening for sirens.

Aimie: You always do this!

Aimie: You always underplay everything!

Aimie: Remember when you broke your arm skiing and you called it a 'minor sprain' and tried to drive yourself to the ER?

Aimie: You’re bleeding out in a chair, Michael!

Aimie: This is not a minor sprain!

A choked gasp escaped Michael.

Micheal: It’s… rather inconvenient, I suppose, he admitted, his head lolling to one side.

Micheal: Though I will say, the intruder had excellent taste in… well, he just took my wallet. Left my watch. It's the Cartier, you know!(Good man)

Amy let out a strangled, half-hysterical laugh, half-sob.

Aimie: You're admiring his taste in theft while he's leaving you for dead?! Michael, you are impossible!

Aimie: Absolutely, utterly impossible!"

Just then, the distant wail of a siren grew louder, closer.

A wave of relief, so potent it made Amy dizzy, washed over her.

Aimie: See?

Amy whispered, tears streaming freely down her face, the argument forgotten, replaced by raw, desperate hope.

Michael blinked, his gaze unfocused, but a faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips.

Micheal: You know, Aimie, he murmured, his voice barely audible, I still think a stronger emphasis on community involvement… might have deterred him.

Amy just cried, pressing the blood-soaked towel harder, a furious, loving, and utterly terrified

Aimie: I told you so, unspoken on her lips.

Micheal returned back to present time…

As they sat there in silence, the only sound the gentle hum of the refrigerator and the soft ticking of the clock on the wall,

Aimie felt a sense of gratitude wash over her, Michael was alive, and for now, that was all that mattered.

The world outside might be chaotic and unforgiving, but in this moment, they had found a small pocket of peace, a sense of normalcy in the midst of madness.

As they sipped their tea, the sheet-covered body of Ryder seemed to recede into the background, a grim reminder of the dangers they faced, but also a testament to the resilience and determination of those who refused to back down.

In a world of shadows and secrets, Aimie and Michael had found a bond that went beyond mere loyalty or duty.

They had found a sense of home, a sense of belonging, and it was this that would carry them through the darkest of times.

Micheal Blinked again, waking up in bed, he could hear water running in the kitchen…

As Michael slowly opened his eyes, the scorching desert sun still lingered in his mind, a haunting reminder of the dream that had consumed him for what felt like an eternity.

The woman in the white dress, her face a blur, yet her presence etched in his memory like a scar.

He tried to shake off the vivid images, but they clung to him like the dry, cracked earth that had seemed to Stretch on forever in his subconscious.

It wasn't until he shifted in bed, wincing in pain, that reality began to set in.

His hand instinctively went to his side, where a dull ache throbbed like a drumbeat.

The stab wound, Aimie!

The memories came flooding back, and with them, a wave of gratitude towards the woman who had saved his life.

With a groan, Michael swung his legs over the side of the bed and planted his feet firmly on the ground.

The cool, smooth floor was a welcome respite from the chaotic jumble of his thoughts.

As he stood up, he noticed the floor was immaculate, the dark wood gleaming in the soft morning light.

A faint scent of disinfectant and fresh air wafted up, and he realized that Aimie must have spent hours cleaning up the mess he had left behind.

The house, once a scene of carnage and chaos, was now spotless.

The bloodstains, the shattered glass, the overturned furniture, all gone.

It was as if the very memory of that night had been erased, leaving only the faintest whisper of what had transpired.

Michael's eyes wandered around the room, taking in the familiar contours of his home, now transformed into a serene oasis.

He stumbled towards the kitchen, his body protesting the movement, but his mind hungry for answers.

The sink was spotless, the counters wiped clean, and the trash can empty.

A note on the counter, scribbled in Aimie hasty handwriting, caught his eye: I've taken care of everything. Rest. You're safe now.

Michael's gaze lingered on the words, a mix of emotions swirling inside him.

Gratitude, relief, and a hint of guilt. He knew he owed Aimie his life, and the weight of that debt settled heavy on his shoulders.

(Turning off the kitchen sink water that he heard running)

After he filled a glass with water from the tap, he caught a glimpse of himself in the window's reflection.

The dark circles under his eyes, the pale complexion, and the faint smudge of a scar above his left eyebrow was all testaments to the ordeal he had endured.

The woman in the white dress still lingered in the shadows of his mind, a mysterious and elusive figure, but for now, Michael was content to focus on the present.

The cool water soothed his parched throat, and as he drank, he felt a sense of peace settle over him, like the stillness that follows a storm.

He knew that the road to recovery would be long and arduous, but with Aimie by his side, he felt a sense of hope that he hadn't felt in a long time.

The desert dream, with all its secrets and terrors, would have to wait.

For now, Michael was ready to face the day, and the future, head-on!

Michael set the glass down, the condensation leaving a ring on the counter that mirrored the uncertainty in his chest.

The note from Aimie felt like a promise, but promises, he knew, could crack under the weight of unspoken truths.

His phone buzzed on the edge of the countertop, a single message from an unknown number.

The screen flickered in the morning light, the text stark and unadorned: "The sands don’t forget."

(His breath hitched)

The words coiled around the edges of his dream, the desert’s heat suddenly tangible.

He shook his head, trying to banish the imagery, but the woman in white emerged again, her dress billowing like dunes in a wind he couldn’t feel.

(A chill crept up his spine)

The kitchen window caught his eye then, its pane reflecting not the backyard he knew was full of body parts and a lopsided fence, a patch of wilted roses.

(but a vast, rippling expanse of desert)

He staggered closer, pressing his palm to the glass.

The illusion dissolved in an instant, replaced by the familiar, overgrown yard.

(His pulse thrummed in his ears) 

Micheal: Fatigue, he told himself… 

Micheal: Trauma...Watch when i get him alone!

(But the scar above his eyebrow throbbed in time with the lie)

A drawer creaked in the hallway.

Michael froze!

The house should’ve been silent?

Aimie car was gone, the street empty?

He gripped the counter, his other hand hovering near the knife block!

(a feeble shield)

Footsteps approached, slow and deliberate, and for a heartbeat, he saw her in the reflection: the woman in white, her face now clear!

Not a stranger. But who?

(But when he turned, the hallway was empty)

In the living room, something had changed.

The bookshelf, once haphazardly stacked, now bore a single, deliberate arrangement: a photo frame centered amid the chaos.

He hadn’t taken that picture.

It was Aimie, standing in front of a desert landscape, her white dress untouched by sand, her smile a shadow of the one she wore now.

Behind her, a cactus bloomed crimson, its petals unnervingly like the blood he’d seen on his floor.

The air tasted metallic as he flipped the frame over.

A label on the back read "Memory #7: Desert Oasis, 2029." 

His fingers trembled. Desert Oasis.

The name prickled at something buried deep in a town he’d thought lost to time, to guilt.

It was remembering.

The desert wasn’t a dream.

It was a grave of the past!

But the desert remembered.

The drive was a fever dream.

The ground trembled. Above him, the woman in white stood at the riverbed’s edge, her dress now stained crimson, the same as the cactus petals.

Not a ghost.

A warning!

Micheal: Its just hallucinations!

The desert had always been a grave.

But now, as the wind picked up and the stars began to dim…

Michael understood it was also a script. And he was the final role to play.

Somewhere in the dark, a choir of voices began to sing.

Aimie clapped making Micheal blink again…

Aimie: Micheal focus what happen?

Int: The Knife Replay

The kitchen was a refrigerator‑cold slab of concrete and steel, the kind of place you only ever see in movies when the hero is forced to improvise a weapon out of a saucepan lid.

Michael could still smell the copper‑tinged ozone that hung in the air after the emergency generators had sputtered back to life.

It was a scent he could not shake, even now, months later, when the city’s neon lights had dimmed and the street vendors were selling stale pretzels to tourists who thought they were in some sort of immersive theater.

Sitting at the little round table near the window, the one that once held a bowl of cheap instant ramen, now occupied by a glass of water that had gathered a thin skin of condensation.

The night outside was a loud, the sky bruised even more by the distant fireworks that were supposed to be a celebration but felt like a muffled warning.

Michael’s eyes were fixed on the glossy surface of the table, but his mind had gone somewhere else—back to that kitchen, twelve months ago, when the clock had stopped at 3:33 and the world turned into a thin slice of adrenaline.

He could still hear the sudden, almost mechanical chime of the security system’s breach alarm.

The black‑ops agent, codenamed Raven, had slipped through the ventilation shaft, his black tactical suit humming softly against the concrete.

The only thing that betrayed his presence was the faint thud of his boots on the metal grates, and the whisper of his breath as he peered through the ceiling’s hatch.

Michael hadn’t seen him coming.

He had been busy scraping the burnt crust off the bottom of a skillet, a mundane ritual that seemed absurd in hindsight.

The moment the hatch opened, a flash of steel caught his eye.

A knife, longer than a kitchen cleaver, its blade gleaming like a strip of moonlight.

It was the kind of knife you’d find in an interrogation room, not in a restaurant, and it was already pressed against the agent’s forearm.

“Not today,” Michael had muttered, more to himself than to the intruder.

Raven’s eyes were an impossible shade of gray, as if someone had taken a photograph of fog and embedded it in his irises.

He didn’t speak; he simply lunged, the knife’s edge singing a thin, high‑pitched roar as it sliced through the thin air.

Michael’s reflexes, honed by years of kitchen work, chopping, dicing, flicking his wrist with precision kicked in.

He grabbed the nearest object: a heavy cast‑iron pan, its handle worn smooth by countless flips.

The pan swung in a wide arc, connecting with Raven’s forearm.

Metal met metal, the sound a brutal clang that reverberated off the concrete walls.

The knife clattered to the floor, slipping under the nearest table leg.

Raven’s face was a mask of surprise, his breath a shallow gasp.

For a heartbeat, they stood opposite each other, one man in a chef’s apron, the other a silhouette of a ghost in an all‑black exo‑suit.

Michael’s heart hammered against his ribs like a drum in a marching band.

He could feel the sweat beading under his sleeves despite the chill, his fingertips tingling as if they were about to turn to frost.

(Raven recovered first)

He thrust forward, his left hand reaching for the knife’s hilt.

It was a move!

Michael had seen in countless training videos, the “blade‑re‑acquire” technique: a swift rotation of the wrist, a flick that turns an opponent’s weapon back onto them.

He realized too late that he had misread the shift in Raven’s weight.

The agent pivoted, elbow low, blade slicing a thin line across Michael’s forearm.

The pain was sharp, immediate…

an electric sting that shot up his arm, a reminder that flesh is not as forgiving as aluminum.

Blood dripped onto the kitchen tiles, a dark, viscous river that spread in thin, spreading circles.

Michael’s vision narrowed for a split second; the world reduced to the red of his own blood and the steel of the knife.

Instinct took over. He dropped the pan, slid his palm under the knife’s handle, and twisted.

The blade wavered, then fell, its point striking the concrete and embedding itself shallowly, like a nail. With that, the rhythm of the fight changed.

Raven’s grip loosened, his shoulders sagging as if the weight of a thousand secret missions suddenly bore down upon him.

Michael didn’t pause to think; he lunged, the heel of his boot connecting with the agent’s knee.

Raven fell back, the impact sending a shallow crack through the floor tiles.

The knife, now half‑buried in the concrete, glinted menacingly.

For a moment, the only sound was the hiss of the HVAC system trying to reboot, breathing life back into the abandoned kitchen.

The agent scrambled to his feet, blood spattering across his mask, his eyes now a burning ember of fury and something else, perhaps respect.

He raised his free hand, flexed his fingers, and then without another word he dropped his weapon, slumped against the pantry door, and allowed himself to be taken.

Michael lowered his arms, his breath ragged, his hands trembling.

He looked down at the cut on his forearm, the deep cut that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat.

He knew then that the night had changed him.

Not because he survived, a knife fight, an elite operative, nor because he had seen the shadows that lingered behind the ordinary.

He realized it was the moment when he understood the thin line between ordinary and extraordinary was drawn not with a broad brush, but with the edge of a knife, the swing of a pan, and the flash of a second where terror and purpose intersect.

Micheal Blinked again in a daze

Back at the table now, with his water untouched, Michael let the memory replay again and again, a mental montage flickering like an old film reel.

He saw the knife gleam, heard the clang, felt the sting, and sensed the final, quiet surrender of the black‑ops agent.

He could almost taste the metallic tang of blood on his tongue, the iron flavor of short fear.

Micheal: Whats the last thing you remember! he whispered to the empty kitchen, as if the walls might bear witness.

Micheal: Replay, but this time, I’m the one holding the knife.

The kitchen was still, but inside Michael, something had shifted.

The chef’s knife he kept now in the drawer seemed heavier, as though it carried the weight of that night.

Micheal waiting for the next replay, the next cut, the next chance to see how a simple kitchen could become a battlefield.

where a chef could become a soldier, and a soldier, perhaps, could become something else entirely.

Micheal blinked again and he was sweating in bed un-able to know what is real or not!

The light that slipped through the cracked blinds was a thin, grey, the sort of morning that feels reluctant to wake the world.

It fell across Michael’s face, catching the pale bruise that had become a permanent constellation on his left cheek.

He lay still, the thin sheet pulled tight over his torso, the stitches on his abdomen a neat line of white that seemed to map a story he’d rather not tell.

Four days had stretched out like a rubber band, each hour a tiny knot of anxiety, each minute a shuffle of restless thoughts.

The IV that threaded through his arm was a quiet reminder that his body still needed a lifeline, a thin tube of clear fluid delivering something saline, perhaps, or a faint hint of medication.

(to keep the pain from leaping into a scream.)

He lifted his head, feeling the weight of his own breath against the bandage that had been sewn over the wound.

The stitches were still fresh, their edges a little darker than the surrounding skin, like the tip of a pen that had just drawn a line and not yet faded.

The surgeon’s hands had been steady, their rhythm a metronome that promised order in an otherwise chaotic night.

A soft thump sounded from the hallway, a nurse pushing a cart, the wheels squeaking against the linoleum, a soft chime of the “code blue” alarm that had been silenced hours ago.

Michael’s eyes followed the sound, watching the curtain of the door part just enough for a pale hand to appear, then retreat.

He could hear the distant whispered prayer, the rustle of a newspaper being turned over.

He tried to remember what the day before the incident had been like.

The taste of bitter coffee on his tongue, the way the city’s traffic sounded like a low, continuous hum, the feeling of his own hands, warm and sure, resting on the steering wheel of his Mustang.

It was as if he’d been driving a car that had suddenly veered off the road, the world tilting, a flash of steel, then a sudden, dizzying hush.

The world had turned to sirens, to rushed voices, to the sterile scent of antiseptic that still clung to his nostrils like a stubborn perfume.

Now, in the quiet of his room, the memories came in fragments: the bright flash of lights, Aimie, the cold hard press of the scalpel, the knot of his own heart tightening as he felt his pulse drop.

And then—nothing!

Just the soft rhythm of the IV pump, a gentle gurgle that seemed to echo the beat of his own chest.

He tried to smile, the corners of his mouth pulling up just enough to meet the shape of his old self.

It was a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, but the effort was there.

He’d get through this, he told himself. The stitches would hold, the IV would finish its work, and the scar would become just another line on his skin, a reminder, perhaps, of how close he’d come to crossing a line he never intended to cross.

A small, almost imperceptible creak sounded as the door opened a fraction wider.

Aimie stepped in, her hair pulled back into a tight bun, her face a practiced mask of calm.

She glanced at Michael, her gaze softening for a moment before she slipped back into a more professional mode.

Aimie: Morning, Michael,” she said, her voice low enough that it seemed to belong only to him.

Aimie: How are we feeling today?

He swallowed, feeling the warm liquid travel through his veins, a faint taste of metal that reminded him he was still very much alive.

Micheal: Alive enough, he managed, the words feeling like a promise he was making to himself as much as to the woman in the doorway.

She checked the IV line, adjusted the flow rate, and then paused.

Aimie: You’ve been doing great. The wound’s healing well, and the infection markers are down.

Aimie: I want to take you off the drip tomorrow if everything stays steady.

Micheal nodded, though Aimie could not see it. In his mind, he imagined a future where the wound was just a scar, where the IV was a relic of a past he would soon leave behind, where mornings would not be measured by the thin light slipping through blinds, but by the sound of a coffee machine in a kitchen he’d build for himself, and maybe the laughter of friends and family spilling over the tabletop.

But TINASHE…!

Micheal: Thank you,” he whispered, the words barely more than a sigh.

Aimie smiled, a genuine warmth that seemed to linger in the air for a heartbeat longer than usual.

Aimie: Rest now.

Aimie: I’ll check on you again in a few hours…

Aimie left, the door clicked shut and the hallway fell back into its muted rhythm.

Michael lay back, the IV’s soft hiss a lullaby.

The world outside his window was still waking up, the city’s pulse beating in sync with his own.

He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the stitched skin under his fingertips, the faint throb of his heartbeat, the steady drip of the IV, and for the first time since the night the knife had found him, he allowed himself to breathe fully, to let the quiet settle into something less like a wound and more like a bridge.

One he could cross, step by careful step, toward whatever lay beyond the fourth day.

But still, what happened after, why more agents have not come ?

Why?…Micheal blinked again!

Thulani eyes blinked twice in relief to finally being home after all this time.

As Thulani stepped into his apartment, the familiar creak of the door and the faint scent of last night's leftover takeout enveloped him, a warm welcome after the grueling tour with Blue Ivy.

The young star, finally free from the watchful eyes of her parents, had been living her best life, and Thulani had been happy to be a part of it.

With Jay Z away on business and Beyoncé, well... otherwise occupied, Blue Ivy had been calling the shots, and Thulani had been along for the wild ride.

As he dropped his bags onto the floor, his eyes wandered to the TV, and he mindlessly grabbed the remote, flipping it on.

The screen flickered to life, and Thulani's gaze was met with a somber news anchor, her face grave with the weight of the news she was about to deliver.

Reporter: We're coming to you live from the funeral service of Ben J, the renowned entrepreneur and philanthropist, who passed away earlier this week.

Thulani's eyes widened as the camera panned to the packed funeral home, the mourners a Who's Who of the music and entertainment industry.

He recognized a few familiar faces, all of whom had come to pay their respects to the man who had been a mentor, a friend, and a guiding light to so many.

Thulani's thoughts drifted back to the conversations he had about Ben J, who had been a close family friend at one point.

(Many on t.v cried and had spoken about his unwavering support for the arts.)

As the eulogies began, Thulani found himself drawn into the ceremony, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. He listened, transfixed, as Ben J's loved ones and colleagues shared stories of his life, his legacy, and his impact on the world.

The TV screen seemed to fade away, and Thulani felt as though he was right there in the funeral home, surrounded by the mourners, feeling the weight of their grief and the depth of their gratitude for the time they had with Ben J.

As the funeral service drew to a close, Thulani felt a sense of peace settle over him. He turned off the TV, the silence a welcome respite from the chaos of the tour and the turmoil of the world outside.

He took a deep breath, feeling the stillness of the moment, and let his thoughts drift away from Ben J.

( and to the countless lives that had been touched by the man who had left an indelible mark on the world. )

In the quiet of his apartment, Thulani found a sense of connection, a sense of community, and a sense of gratitude for the people who had made a difference, and for the memories that would live on, long after they were gone.

KNOCK….KNOCK…KNOCK….

Thulani looked at the door, confused about who it could be?

The knock was harder and faster the second time at the front door of his apartment!

KNOCK..KNOCK..KNOCK…

Thulani did not ask who, he just walked over to the door, unocked it and opened the door without fear

Niksa rushed in covered in blood over over her clothing?

Thulani quickly peaked his head out into the hallway, looking left and right down the hallway…

(Nothing but silence, in return to his ears?!)

Niksa rushed to the bathroom, as Thulani closed the door, locking it with a chain added at the top.

Thulani: Niksa whats going on!

Thulani walking towards the bathroom door that was locked with Niksa on the other side, hoping this was all a bad dream.

End Of Act 2