UNDERGROUND VILLAGE – MOMENTS LATER
John stands like a wall between the children and the oncoming swarm of humanoid rodents. His baton cracks against bone, the sharp crunch echoing through the underground cavern. With each swing, punch, and kick, he moves like a beast unleashed—precision honed through years of supernatural hunting.
His knuckles slam into jaws, his baton crushes knees—dislocating joints, shattering ribs, dropping enemies like flies. But they keep coming.
JOHN (growling internally):
"Dammit, this is why I work alone. This is why I take the night shift. Less people to protect... fewer things to lose."
Then—a cry pierces the chaos.
CONNOR (terrified):
"Guys! Help!!"
One of the rodents has wrapped its grotesque tail around Connor, dragging him away.
Before John can move—
ERMA's eyes flash, her hair lifting. Her calm exterior hides a storm.
With a flick of her hand, Connor is yanked away from the rodent's grasp mid-air, held gently by telekinetic force before floating safely back behind John.
But even as one child is saved—
AMY and TERRY get grabbed.
TERRY (furious, squirming):
"Get OFF me!"
A rodent leaps on erma back, shouting:
RODENT:
"I got her! I got—"
Suddenly—WHAM—he's launched into a pillar, knocked out cold.
JOHN (breathing heavy, noticing):
"What the hell...?"
Behind the chaos, Principal Phibes watches with wide eyes.
PHIBES:
"Oh dear... this is getting out of hand."
SIDNEY (stepping forward):
"I'll take care of it."
PHIBES (startled):
"Sidney, I don't think you shou—"
A sharp crack in the cavern air. A pulse of Sidney's power vibrates through the walls. The temperature drops.
Suddenly—an avalanche of rodents descends from the higher tunnels, swarming toward John and the kids like a tidal wave of fur, claws, and rage.
JOHN (spitting blood, readying himself):
"Oh, you motherfu—"
SMASH CUT TO BLACK.
The screen shakes. Silence.
FADE TO BLACK.
A dull ringing echoes. Muffled. Distant.
Then—soft light bleeds in, warm and golden, almost nostalgic. Birds chirp outside. A curtain sways lazily to the rhythm of a spring breeze.
INT. SMALL APARTMENT – JAPAN – DAY
The room is modest but cozy. A low table. A sliding paper door left slightly ajar. The hum of cicadas in the distance.
JOHN, younger, unscarred—his face still whole, unmarred by flame—lies in bed beneath light cotton sheets. Sunlight touches his features gently. He blinks, confused. Sweat beads on his forehead.
He sits up.
His breathing is heavy, uneven. He looks down at his hands. Whole. Smooth. No burns. No pain.
JOHN (whispers):
"This... can't be real."
Soft footsteps approach.
YORI, ethereal and beautiful—her short black hair flowing like ink, her eyes gentle and full of emotion—kneels beside the bed. She's dressed in a light kimono, the same color she wore the day they went to the amusement park, the day before the fire. She looks just as she did in his happiest memories.
YORI (smiling faintly):
"You're awake..."
John turns his head slowly. His breath catches in his throat.
JOHN:
"Yori...?"
Without hesitation, she wraps her arms around him from behind, pulling him into a gentle, familiar embrace. He closes his eyes at her touch. It hurts to feel this warm again.
YORI (softly):
"You've been restless... talking in your sleep."
John doesn't answer right away. He reaches up and gently places his hand over hers. His voice cracks.
JOHN:
"I... I don't know where I am. I don't know when I am. Everything feels... distant. Like I'm watching my life happen from the other side of a glass."
He breaks the embrace, slowly standing up, walking to the mirror on the wall.
He looks into it—and for a brief moment, he sees his current self. Burned. Bandaged. Hollow-eyed. The Burned Man. But when he blinks, it's gone—just his young face staring back.
JOHN (quietly):
"...This is a dream. A memory."
Yori walks up behind him, her arms slipping around his waist again, resting her cheek against his back.
YORI:
"Even if it is... I'm glad we can share it."
He lowers his head.
JOHN:
"I miss you. So much. I miss us. The stupid ramen dates. The way you'd laugh at my terrible jokes. The park. That night under the fireworks..."
He pauses, voice heavy with pain.
JOHN:
"I wish things were different. I wish your father hadn't— I wish I was stronger. I wish_"
He can't finish. Yori tightens her hold on him.
YORI (softly):
"I know."
They stand in silence. The mirror reflects the two of them—whole, unbroken. The moment is perfect… but fragile.
JOHN (choked):
"I don't want to wake up. I don't want to go back to... that life. I'm tired, Yori. I'm so tired."
Yori turns him around, placing her hands gently on his cheeks. She looks into his eyes—deep, sincere.
YORI:
"John, you survived for a reason. You endured everything—even him—and you're still here. Because the world isn't done with you yet."
She smiles softly, a little sadly.
YORI:
"And whether you know it or not… you're not alone anymore."
JOHN:
"...What do you mean?"
Yori leans in and kisses his forehead.
YORI (whispers):
"It's time to wake up, John."
Suddenly—the world around him begins to distort. The golden light turns white-hot. The cicadas fall silent. The mirror cracks. The bed dissolves.
JOHN (desperately):
"Yori—wait—!"
YORI (echoing, fading):
"You'll find the truth soon enough. About everything… and everyone."
FLASH—
FADE IN:
INT. UNDERGROUND RAT HAVEN – COMMON HALL – DIMLY LIT
The air is thick with tension and dust. The aftermath of the avalanche of humanoid rats has left the space in chaos. Children huddle together,. The dim torches flicker against the uneven stone walls.
DELAPORE, the aged rat elder, is desperat.
DELAPORE (shouting):
"Sidney, PLEASE don't—!"
Sidney, his daughter, stands tall in defiance, surrounded by injured rodents and wary children. Her chest rises and falls rapidly.
Before Delapore can say another word, a voice snarls behind him.
RAT SOLDIER (furiously):
"Oh no! You've done enough damage, you little traitor! You've doomed us all!"
A HAND suddenly lashes out from the darkness and grabs the the angry rat by the back of the head.
CRACK.
He's yanked upward, lifted clean off the ground. His limbs flail helplessly, his boots scraping across the dirt floor.
Everyone turns.
It's JOHN.
Still partially bandaged, his coat shredded, dirt and blood on his uniform—but his eyes are burning with cold, violent fury. He looks like a beast dragged from hell, and even worse: a dad woken up mid-nap with a throbbing hangover.
JOHN (low, growling):
"Your voice is too loud."
He tightens his grip on the rat soldier's skull. Bones audibly creak.
JOHN (quiet, dangerous):
"Shut up before I break your jaw."
The room falls into complete, stunned silence. Even the bravest rodents take a cautious step back.
Then—
PHIBES, the principal, walks in with hands raised, expression calm but alert.
PHIBES:
"I hate to keep interrupting..."
(he glances at Sidney)
"...but don't you think your daughter should make the decision herself?"
(he faces DELAPORE)
"And even then, it's a little late to hold back now."
John slowly drops the soldier, who collapses to the floor gasping. He turns to Phibes, still radiating tension like a coiled spring.
JOHN (stern):
"Principal... I'm very late to this party of yours. So you've got a whole lot of explaining to do."
PHIBES (unfazed):
"Not now, Officer John. Everything will reveal itself… in time. Be patient."
(he turns to Sidney)
"Sidney, please—continue where you left off."
The entire room turns to look at her.
Sidney is frozen. Her eyes dart from her father—still stone silent—to the children. Then to John. Then back to her father.
She searches his face… for something. Approval. Guidance. Anything.
But Delapore doesn't speak. He only stared at her.
It's Erma who steps forward.
Her expression unreadable, but her presence is grounding.
She places a hand gently on Sidney's shoulder.
Sidney turns. Erma gives her a small, confident nod.
Sidney (quietly):
"...Thank you."
She steps forward into the center of the room. Every eye is on her. She closes her eyes, inhales deeply, and exhales slowly.
Then—her body begins to change.
Her skin takes on a faint gray hue. Her ears elongate, twitching as fine hairs grow. Her fingers sharpen slightly, and a long rat-like tail extends behind her. Her face reshapes—part human, part rodent—but still undeniably her.
The transformation is not grotesque—it's almost beautiful in a haunting way. She is both: the bridge between two worlds. Born in the dark, raised with light.
As the change finishes, she opens her eyes.
They are shimmering crimson, yet filled with resolve.
The children stares in stunned silence.
John looks her up and down. His eye twitches. He blinks hard, as if trying to make sense of what he's seeing.
Then—
JOHN (under his breath):
"...What the hell?"
The torches flicker. Dust floats in the air. A palpable silence hangs over the room like a fog.
Sidney stands in the center, her transformation complete.
Her breathing is steady. Her long, rat-like tail flicks slightly behind her. Her hybrid form—humanoid yet distinctly rodent—makes her look like something out of myth… or a nightmare, depending on who's watching.
The children stare—Amy, Terry, Connor, and Erma—each with wide eyes. The sight is overwhelming. None of them speak. Their expressions are frozen: shock, awe… and fear.
DELAPORE watches them with a weary heart. He closes his eyes with a slow sigh.
DELAPORE (softly, solemn):
"It's as I feared…"
(he gestures toward the children)
"Look at them. They're shocked. Frightened even. We show them who we are... and all they see are monsters."
He lowers his gaze, the weight of generations on his back. Regret clouds his features.
But Principal Phibes, still calm and collected, raises a finger.
PHIBES (quietly, with a glimmer of confidence):
"Wait for it."
SIDNEY (softly):
"Finally…"
(she exhales, rubbing the back of her neck)
"...trying to keep that form can be exhausting."
(she glances down, nervously)
"Look... I… I know I might not look so human now. It's just… I've been cooped up in that shape for so long. Pretending. Hiding. And I just thought that if anyone knew—"
Before she can finish, a small hand gently reaches for hers.
ERMA, calm and unreadable as always, is smiling softly.
She holds Sidney's hand… and then pulls her into a hug.
A gasp spreads across the rodent crowd like a wave. Shock. Disbelief.
Amy (grinning, heart full):
"You're so cute!"
Terry (eyes wide, borderline starstruck):
"Dude! You can transform?! THAT IS AWESOME!"
Connor (a bit breathless):
"Incredible…"
Even Delapore, hardened and weary, can't help but soften.
DELAPORE (genuinely stunned):
"Well, I'll be..."
PHIBES (smirking with satisfaction):
"See? Like I said—things are changing."
From the side, still slightly scuffed and grimy from battle, John Booker rubs his temple with a gloved hand, muttering.
JOHN (grumbling):
"I knew it was a bad idea to drink while working… I'm starting to see things."
PHIBES (gently):
"I know it may seem strange, Officer—"
JOHN (cutting in):
"John. John Booker. And you're the principal of the school, yeah?"
PHIBES (extending a hand):
"Phibes. A pleasure to meet you, John."
JOHN (glaring, voice flat):
"Oh nice to me—go fuck yourself."
PHIBES (unfazed, wagging a finger):
"Shh… Language, John. There are children present. Your words carry such venom. Tell me… have you been hurt?"
JOHN (bitter chuckle):
"Have I been hurt? What are you, blind? Look at me."
(he gestures at his bandage-covered face and arms)
PHIBES (quiet for a long pause):
"......."
JOHN (squinting):
"Wait a minute. Are you blind?"
DELAPORE (cutting in awkwardly):
"Ahem—excuse me for interrupting your… whatever this is."
JOHN (without turning):
"Whatever, rat man."
DELAPORE (deadpan):
"Phibes. You know this doesn't change our plans down here, right? We still need to dig ourselves a new location."
PHIBES (calm, arms behind his back):
"Oh, without a doubt. I assume the noise from upstairs can be quite the annoyance."
(he walks slowly through the group)
"But you don't need to do so out of fear… or shame. You're not animals in hiding. We can get through this—together. It just takes those first steps… whether small or large."
Delapore looks down for a moment… then slowly nods.
DELAPORE:
"...Mmm. Small steps."
Just as the heartfelt moment seems to settle, a sharp clap echoes through the chamber—loud, powerful, commanding. It stops everyone in their tracks. Despite being muffled under layers of bandages, John Booker's single clap cuts through the cavern like a thunderclap.
All eyes snap to him. His presence alone demands attention—an imposing figure wrapped in scars, trauma, and bandages.
JOHN (gruff, serious):
"Alright. Officer of the law here."
(he points a gloved finger toward the group)
"Just one question for you, Mr. Phibes."
PHIBES (raising an eyebrow):
"Yes, Officer Booker?"
JOHN (deadpan):
"Are those kids over there the ones who broke into the school?"
PHIBES (nodding slowly):
"I believe so, yes."
JOHN (sighing, cracking his neck):
"Great. That just makes my job easier."
(he turns to the kids)
"Hey, you four—you're in a lot of trouble."
The kids react instantly:
CONNOR (terrified whisper):
"It's the scary man..."
AMY (soft, concerned):
"It's the sad man..."
TERRY (wide-eyed, almost excited):
"It's the mummy! We're being arrested by a mummy, guys!"
ERMA, as always, says nothing. Her head tilts in quiet curiosity, her dark hair floating slightly around her like an aura. but you can sense the gears turning.
AMY (whispers to Erma):
"Erma… don't you know who he is?"
(she leans in)
"It's that veteran who lives in the neighborhood! I heard he got into some crazy accident, and now he wears those bandages all the time."
CONNOR (nervously):
"I… I heard he was a serial killer..."
TERRY (giddy):
"I heard that mummy escaped from a museum!"
John sighs, running a hand over the top of his bandaged head like he's rubbing away a headache.
JOHN (sarcastic):
"Alright, kids. You all have wild imaginations. Cute. Real cute."
(he straightens up)
"But it's time to face the law."
TERRY (still eyeing John):
"Why the bandages, Officer?"
JOHN (flatly):
"Trust me, kid… you don't want to know."
CONNOR (quietly, worried):
"I… is… is it that bad, sir?"
John looks down at Connor for a moment, his shadow looming over the boy. For once, his tone softens—just slightly.
JOHN (low, honest):
"It is."
(he turns toward the group)
"Now... let's get you all home."
The door to John's dimly lit house creaks open as he steps inside. He closes it behind him with a dull thud. No lights are on except for the soft amber glow of a table lamp in the corner. The place, though modest and bleak, is spotless. His heavy boots echo against the hardwood floor with each step.
He tosses his keys onto a small bowl on the side table—clink—and shrugs off his jacket, exposing the layers of aged, off-white bandages that wrap tightly around his arms and upper body. His breath is slow, strained. He walks toward the kitchen with the kind of exhaustion that weighs not just on the body, but the soul.
INT. KITCHEN – CONTINUOUS
He opens the cupboard above the sink. Inside, only a few items: cans of soup, a bag of rice, and an almost-empty bottle of extremely strong liquor—no label, just glass and raw burn. He grabs the bottle with his calloused, bandaged hand, and opens a drawer, pulling out a bottle of prescription painkillers.
Without hesitation, he pops two pills into his mouth, uncaps the liquor, and chases them down with a long gulp. No flinch. Just a slow exhale afterward, like steam hissing from an old engine.
He sits at the scarred wooden table, the same one with bullet dents and burn marks along the edges. His shoulders slouch, bandages creaking slightly with the motion. He reaches beneath the table and pulls out a small, metal medical box—old, dented, military surplus.
Inside: scissors, fresh gauze, medical tape, burn ointments, and extra wraps.
With methodical, practiced movements, John begins unwrapping the bandages from his left arm. The layers come off slowly—each one revealing angry, deep red scars, puckered skin, and mottled tissue that looks almost melted. His fingers tremble slightly—not from fear, but from pain and the haunting memory of fire.
He peels the final layer off his shoulder, revealing a patch of skin nearly fused with scar tissue. He grabs a small, circular mirror and turns it slightly to see the side of his neck and jaw, where the burns are worst—twisted flesh, shiny in some places, leathery in others.
He applies ointment in slow circles, careful not to miss a spot, then begins the long process of rewrapping himself. By the time he finishes, the bottle of liquor is down another inch.
INT. LIVING ROOM – LATER
JOHN:
(voice low)
C'mon, Bobby… pick up...
After a few rings, a gruff voice answered.
BOBBY (through phone):
This better be important, boy.
JOHN:
It is. I saw something tonight. Something weird… even by our standards.
BOBBY:
We talkin' ghosts, demons, or did a werewolf flash you?
JOHN:
Kids. Four of them. Got caught up in something strange under that school. Place is built over tunnels—home to a whole nest of humanoid rats.
BOBBY:
...Humanoid rats?
JOHN:
Yeah. And one of the kids—she had powers. Real ones. Ghost shit. And the principal? He's in on it.
BOBBY (pauses):
That dose sound strang.
JOHN:
It does.
BOBBY:
You want backup?
JOHN:
Not yet. Just… wanted to hear a familiar voice. It's been a long time since we spoke .
BOBBY:
You call if things go sideways, ya idjit. And stay alive—I already lost too many of you stubborn bastards.
JOHN (smirks):
Copy that.
He ends the call and tosses the phone onto the couch cushion beside him. With a groan, he leans back—bones cracking, pain humming through his body like distant thunder.
But just as he adjusts, he reaches into his back pocket—and freezes.
His fingers come up empty.
He checks again, patting the area, then standing quickly—eyes darting.
JOHN:
"No. No no no…"
He turns on a lamp, starts checking the floor, the cracks in the couch, the table...
The burnt photograph of Yori—charred at the edges, but still holding the soft image of her smiling face—is gone.
He stands there, silent.
A moment passes.
Then:
JOHN (quietly, bitter):
"I can't have nice things, now can I?"
He stares into space for a moment, jaw tight. The only sound is the quiet ticking of the clock and the gentle creak of the house settling.
JOHN BOOKER'S BEDROOM – NIGHT
John sat on the edge of his bed, the room dimly lit by the warm orange glow of a nearby lamp. The shadows on the walls flickered gently as the wind rustled the curtains. Everything was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that only made the noise in his head louder.
He stared at the floor, his hands resting heavily on his thighs, his shoulders slouched. The bottle of liquor sat on the nightstand, half-empty, untouched for the last hour.
Then it came.
A memory—clear as day.
Yori laughing in the moonlight, her hand in his, dancing barefoot in their tiny kitchen back in Japan. Her smile. The way she looked at him like he was more than just some broken man. The nights they'd stay up talking until sunrise, her head on his chest, his fingers brushing through her hair.
He could still feel it.
Still smell her perfume lingering in the air.
John's hand slowly rose to his face, touching the bandages wrapped tightly across his scarred cheeks, as if trying to find some version of himself beneath them. But there was nothing—just ruined flesh and a man held together by pain and gauze.
His fingers trembled.
Then, quietly—almost like a whisper—he began to cry.
Silent at first. Just the sound of his breath catching in his throat, a tear slipping from beneath the wrappings. He curled forward, hands gripping the edge of the bed, knuckles white.
But as the memories flooded in—the good, the beautiful, the lost—the sadness twisted. Shifted.
The sobs turned jagged.
Then, laughter.
Low at first. Then louder. Broken. Unhinged.
JOHN (laughing, through tears):
Heh... ha… hahahah…
He wiped at his face, smearing tears into the old bandages, laughing like a man standing on the edge of a cliff with no one left to pull him back.
He looked up at the ceiling, eyes glassy.
JOHN (quietly):
I miss you so damn much.
The laughter slowly faded, dying into the stillness of the room once more. John leaned back, laying down on the bed fully clothed, staring up at the dark ceiling, his breathing finally steady.
ERMA'S BEDROOM – NIGHT
The pale glow of the moon spilled in through the half-open window, casting long, soft shadows across the room. The wind outside gently swayed the trees, their leaves whispering like spirits telling secrets to the night.
Erma sat silently on her bed, her knees pulled to her chest, her long black hair cascading over her shoulders like ink on porcelain. The room around her was quiet—peaceful, even—but inside, her mind stirred with questions.
In her small hands, she held a scorched photograph.
The edges were singed, curling inward like charred petals of a dying flower. The center of the photo remained mostly intact, though faded and worn. A beautiful woman smiled back at her from the past, her features soft, kind... and completely unfamiliar.
Erma stared at the photo, tilting her head slightly. She didn't know who the woman was. Not her name. Not her story. But there was something in the woman's eyes—something haunting, gentle, and almost... familiar.
She glanced down at the burn marks along the bottom of the image, then up at the woman's face again. A deep silence filled the room, only broken by the faint ticking of a small clock on her nightstand.
She hadn't found the photo on the ground, nor in her room.
The sad man dropped it.
She had watched him walk away from her house after he droped her earlier that evening—his figure wrapped in bandages, shoulders heavy like the world was strapped to his back. He hadn't noticed when the picture slipped from his back pocket, fluttering to the ground like a forgotten memory.
Erma's ghostly fingers traced the edge of the photograph, as if trying to understand its meaning. She didn't know why, but something inside her knew the photo was important to him. Sacred. A part of a story he didn't want anyone else to see.
Her dark eyes narrowed with determination, glowing slightly in the moonlight.
She would return it.
When she saw him again—the man the other kids called the mummy, the sad man, the veteran—she would give it back. Because it wasn't hers to keep. And because, deep inside, she could feel a thread connecting them. A whisper of something shared... even if she didn't yet understand it.
Erma tucked the burned photo into a small wooden box beneath her pillow, safe and hidden.
Then, she laid back, eyes wide open as she stared at the ceiling, wondering who the woman was.
And why her face made her heart ache.