Manhattan, December 1994
The siren of a police car wailed through the night, becoming the soundtrack guiding a crowd of people watching in tense silence at the scene unfolding in the snowfall. The same was true for several Sheriffs aiming their pistols at a phone booth right at the intersection. That was precisely where the tension began.
The cold steel of the gun barrel against her temple was colder than the winter air, amplifying the fear within the girl. Meanwhile, the man holding the revolver, her captor, maintained a calm demeanor.
"Go ahead and shoot, and this girl's head gets a hole in it," he threatened, taking a drag from a cigarette before tossing it onto the asphalt and crushing it under his heel.
The strained faces of the Sheriffs were racking their brains to find a way to subdue the man without harming the girl he held hostage.
"Move aside!" he commanded, tightening his arm around the girl's neck, his finger ready on the trigger.
There was no choice but to release one criminal to save one hostage. The Sheriff slowly lowered his pistol. A lopsided smile reappeared on the handsome man's face. He emerged from the phone booth, dragging the hostage. His sharp blue eyes darted around, vigilant for any Sheriff who might seize a chance to shoot amidst a moment of carelessness.
The girl screamed as she was shoved into the car, followed immediately by the man who never once removed the gun's muzzle from her temple. Hurriedly starting the engine, the man hit the gas. The Mercedes-Benz sped recklessly down the slick, snowy road, scraping against cars blocking its path.
An instruction from a director cut through the tense drama unfolding. The men in Sheriff uniforms and the civilians, who were extras in a film, all broke into cheerful smiles at once. They dispersed to take on other roles, because the scene of a girl being kidnapped by an armed man at a phone booth was finished.
Several crew members bustled about, rearranging the set. Soon, the actor who had played the kidnapper approached, along with the girl who had been the victim. A makeup artist came over to fix the subtle makeup on their faces and hair.
"One more scene, and we're done shooting for the day," said the middle-aged man sitting on a folding chair labeled "DIRECTOR." He wore a faded denim jacket with a worn-out collar, a loose black t-shirt, and shabby khaki pants rolled up at the cuffs. A weathered brown leather baseball cap sat tilted on his head, revealing some of his long, curly hair that was starting to turn white at the temples. An unlit cigarette was pinched between his middle and index fingers, while his other hand gripped an enamel coffee cup with peeling paint. He stared at the small portable monitor—showing a rough feed from the camera—with sharp yet calm eyes, characteristic of an early '90s New York indie director.
The actor just gave a slow nod. The next scene was clearly more challenging than the last—he had to stand in the open car door while shooting backwards, in a chase scene between the kidnapper and several Sheriff cars through the city streets.
It wasn't that they didn't have a stuntman to replace him—the team had prepared everything, from safety cables to camera angle calculations. But the young man insisted on doing it himself. "To get into the character," he had said back then, in a calm tone that brooked no argument. Both his manager and the director had tried to persuade him otherwise, but in the end, they could only exchange glances and give in.
Once his makeup and hair were done—a touch of powder so his skin wouldn't shine too much under the lights, his blonde hair restyled to stay artfully disheveled—he slipped his hands into the pockets of his worn-out leather jacket and walked over to his co-star, the young girl who had just played the kidnapping victim in the phone booth.
"Did I push you too hard earlier?" the young man asked, slightly bowing his head, his fingers gently checking the wrist of the pretty brunette.
Alice, that was her name, looked at him—her hazel eyes calm, showing no sign of discomfort. She let him hold her hand, as if the warmth from that touch was more soothing than painful.
"No. Besides, I liked your approach. Very... immersive," she replied, her lips curving into a small, genuine smile, while her gaze traced the depths of the young man's blue eyes.
Joey smiled, half-awkward, half-amused. "Don't praise me too much," he said, his low voice holding a playful note, "or I'll get a big head." He laughed—a crisp, light sound, like a young man not yet fully rid of his innocent side.
They talked a bit more—about the script, camera positions, and the weather turning colder as evening approached—before finally being called to proceed with the final scene of the day.
Joey James Carter, an actor on the rise for the past three years. He was eighteen, having already successfully won two Emmy nominations in the categories of Outstanding Supporting Actor and Outstanding Lead Actor in a television series titled A Genius Criminal. The show achieved high ratings, and season two was being filmed this year with Joey as the lead. Alongside Alice Garwood, a former child actress who would later become his love interest in this TV series.
He played Kevin Richardson, 23, an antihero protagonist. Upholding justice in his own way; taking to the field to deal with evildoers, much like the famous hero Batman. Yet, he possessed a personality akin to the Joker. Cunning, manipulative, and acting as judge, jury, and executioner. Kevin would kill criminals on the spot without giving them a chance to repent.
"The world is cruel and full of injustice. If you want justice, you have to become even more cruel."
A line from Kevin Richardson that had intrigued Joey enough to accept the role when it was first offered to him by the director.
Audiences praised Joey's flawless performance in portraying an antihero protagonist like Kevin. So Joey credited Charlie Douglas, the director and screenwriter of this film, for creating a character like Kevin Richardson.
.
The 1989 Volvo 240 station wagon finally pulled over to the curb of a narrow street in the West Village, its diesel engine growling softly before falling silent. Its large wheels almost touched the snow-covered, now dirty sidewalk. Sheira pulled the handbrake with a slight squeak.
The view outside differed from the glamour of Midtown. Red brick buildings stood in tight rows, bare trees reached upwards, and the atmosphere felt quieter, more private. Old streetlamps cast a golden-yellow light, casting short shadows on the blanket of snow.
Sheira turned off the headlights, leaving only the soft glow of the dashboard, illuminating her tired face. She looked towards the back.
Joey was fast asleep in the back seat, his body curled up under his thick leather jacket used as an impromptu blanket. His messy blonde hair covered half of his pale face. Even in sleep, a small frown was visible on his forehead, a remnant of the day's filming tension. His breathing was steady but deep, a sign of utter exhaustion.
Sheira watched him for a moment. Joey's usually sharp and alert expression was now soft, innocent, like a boy trying too hard to be a man. A deep sense of pity stirred within her. She knew the burden this young man carried.
She unbuckled her seatbelt and turned, gently reaching for Joey's shoulder.
"Joey," she whispered, her voice soft, almost like dew in the quiet night. "We're here."
No response. Only a small groan from Joey, lost in faceless dreams.
Sheira shook him gently. "Joey. Wake up. You can't sleep here all night."
Joey's eyelids fluttered. His blue eyes opened slowly, blinking in confusion, trying to adjust to the dim light and unfamiliar surroundings. He saw Sheira, then looked around, recognizing the street outside the window.
"Hmm?" he mumbled, his voice hoarse and heavy with sleep. "We're here?"
"Yes," Sheira said with a small, warm smile. "Your apartment is just a block away. Come on, get up. Sleeping in a bed is much more comfortable."
Joey yawned widely, stretching his stiff body. His joints gave soft pops. He sat up straight, rubbing his face with both hands, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep still clinging to his mind.
He looked out the window. The quiet of the West Village felt both calming and isolating. Different from the frenetic energy of Times Square. This was his world, at least technically. A place to hide.
"Okay," he finally said, his voice still raspy. He smoothed out his crumpled jacket. "Thank you, Sheira. For everything today."
Sheira opened the car door. The freezing night air immediately assaulted them, making Joey shiver lightly and fully awakening him.
He stepped out, his legs slightly stiff. Sheira handed him his small backpack containing the script and a few personal items.
"Don't forget to drink the water and take the vitamins I prepared," Sheira reminded him, her voice clear in the quiet night. "And don't stay up late reading the script again."
The 29-year-old woman turned off the car's engine. She could do almost everything—be a driver, a friend, and an older sister who understood Joey's condition without needing it to be spoken.
With a faint smile, Joey simply gave a brief wave. "I'll try."
"Get some rest. I've adjusted your schedule so you can be more relaxed tomorrow," said the dark brown shoulder-length-haired woman, concern evident in her eyes.
Joey nodded, then handed the car keys to a man waiting on the roadside—his regular parking valet who would place the Volvo in a safe spot. That was their ritual every time they returned late at night.
They walked towards the apartment entrance. "Don't forget to take care of your own health too," Joey said to Sheira.
Sheira smiled. "I think that's part of my job as your assistant."
"You're the best," Joey praised as they entered the lobby.
Across the street, the window of a dark black Jaguar slowly rolled down. The driver, a man in dark sunglasses, watched them enter the building. His gaze remained fixed on the main entrance of the apartment, watching until the two figures disappeared from view.
.
As soon as Joey entered the apartment, the bathroom became his destination without a word. Only the sound of the door closing and the rush of the shower told Sheira that Joey was washing away the fatigue, whether from the outside world or from within himself.
Meanwhile, Sheira began her routine tasks.
She opened the small suitcase she usually brought when visiting, taking out clean, ironed, and neatly folded clothes. She sorted the clothes in the closet—setting aside old, wrinkled shirts, matching outfits with the filming schedule she had memorized. A black blazer for a talk show, a white linen shirt for a photoshoot, a soft grey sweater that Joey liked to wear on cold days.
She checked the vitamin supply on the small table near the bed, rearranged the bottles, replaced the water in the small dispenser with fresh water. Then, she opened the window slightly to let the air circulate. In between her activities, she also glanced at Joey's work schedule on the clipboard she always carried.
Sheira noticed how this apartment felt more like a "stopover" than a home. The place was clean and orderly, but there was always a sense of estrangement—as if Joey never truly settled into himself.
A few minutes later, the sound of bare feet was heard.
Joey returned from the bathroom, his hair still wet and dripping onto the blue bathrobe hanging loosely on his body. He opened the freezer and grabbed a bottle of orange juice, then walked leisurely towards the bedroom. Sheira was still there, busy selecting clothes for the next two days.
A pair of arms encircled Sheira's waist from behind.
"Joey, stop that!" she pleaded. She knew all too well the young man's mischievous habits when his mood was..., ambiguous.
But Joey didn't immediately release his embrace. Instead, he brought his face close to Sheira's nape, inhaling the scent of soap and her gentle perfume.
"Is that how you treat an older woman, by ignoring her request?"
Joey sighed, then reluctantly let go of the hug.
"Stop talking about the age difference between us," he said, annoyed.
Sheira just chuckled softly and turned to face Joey. Her eyes were warm, but firm—the look of someone who knew too much but chose not to judge.
"Go to sleep. Put on your pajamas. Don't just wear this bathrobe. You'll catch a cold."
One of her hands brushed through Joey's blonde mane, stroking it gently like an older sister would a younger brother.
Joey took that hand, and before Sheira could pull away, he kissed her fingers one by one with a flirtatious gesture that made the woman sigh.
"Do as I say, okay?" Sheira slowly withdrew her hand, handing over a set of pajamas. Joey accepted it, though his face showed reluctance.
After Joey changed, Sheira checked one last time: the remaining script, and a document Joey needed to sign tomorrow morning. She placed everything neatly on the desk.
The clock showed nearly midnight.
"Don't you want to stay the night?" Joey asked with a charming smile that only appeared when he was trying to flirt with someone.
Sheira snorted. "Don't tease me, you naughty boy."
She pinched Joey's cheek before grabbing her bag and walking away. "See ya."
Joey just nodded and said nothing until the sound of the door closing.
And as usual, once Sheira left, silence immediately enveloped the room.
Joey collapsed onto the bed, staring into the dark ceiling in silence.
In the quiet, Joey stared blankly at the pale white ceiling of his apartment.
Solitude gave him peace, but also an unbearable emptiness.
No sound, no music. Only the ticking of a clock and the hum of the old heater in the corner of the room.
Then, a faint vibration from his Motorola phone—tucked between the film script and a small notebook filled with scribbles. The sound seemed to cut through the void, pulling him out of the moments where he was almost asleep, curled up, hugging himself.
Joey lifted his head, squinting lazily at the screen.
Unknown number.
But he knew, all too well.
That number never had a name saved, but its messages were always the same.
Come down. Someone is waiting for you across the street.
No greeting. No timestamp.
Like a summons from the past arriving at its own convenience.
Joey took a deep breath, as if trying to release something from his chest, but what came out was only a resignation that seemed aged beyond his years. He got up slowly, grabbing the black pea coat still draped over the sofa. Faded, smelling strongly of alcohol. Not his, not his choice, but this world didn't offer much room for things that were entirely clean.
He put on a black bowler hat, covering part of his face.
He glanced briefly at his own reflection in the mirror—blue eyes that now looked empty, yet held something too sharp to be called dead.
The door closed, the apartment was locked, and the night swallowed him.
Joey walked out through the lobby, crossing the quiet, cold streets of the West Village. The night wind hit his face, carrying snowflakes that melted on his cheeks.
Across the street, exactly as instructed, a black Jaguar of the latest model was parked with its engine still running. Leaning against the car was a man—tall, sturdy, with a close-cropped haircut and a dark suit that wasn't thick enough to hide the bulge of a weapon under his jacket. His face was hard, typically Mediterranean Italian, with eyes that scanned the surroundings with high alertness.
The man didn't greet him, only opened the rear door of the Jaguar. His movements were efficient, emotionless. As if leaving no room for Joey to question or refuse.
Joey got in without a single word.
The man closed the door, then quickly got into the driver's seat. The car glided away smoothly—without an announced direction, only a predetermined destination.
In silence, Joey leaned against the window, watching the city lights pass by one by one like old memories arriving uninvited.
If he asked where they were going, the answer still wouldn't put him at ease.
Because, in truth, Joey already knew tonight wasn't about leaving, but about returning.
Returning to someone. Returning to a grip that was never truly released.
[.]