THE AFTERMATH – GROUND ZERO
EXT. URBAN STREET - DAY
The air is thick with the smell of scorched metal and wet asphalt. The low, bruised clouds reflect the flashing blue and red of emergency vehicles. The ambulance siren wails, now closer, almost deafening.
Chaos is organized by urgency. paramedics move with practiced speed.
A young nurse, kneels beside the collapsed pillar where the boy lies. His black hair is matted.
A compounder is efficiently covering another victim nearby.
He shouting over the noise, "Hey! We need that stretcher for the lady in the Honda! Conscious but broken leg!"
Nurse doesn't look up. She presses two fingers firmly against boy's neck, searching for a pulse. She shakes her head slowly.
"I think we're too late here. Too much hemorrhage. Massive trauma to the head."
Another examinerglances over, his face momentarily softening with professional sorrow.
He asked, "Age?"
Nurse said," " Early twenties. College kid, probably. Look at the backpack."
She gently pulls aside the shredded fabric of his college bag, revealing textbooks.
A policeman approaches, holding a clipboard, his face grim. And asked, "Confirmed fatality?"
Nurse said, "Confirmed. Time of death, approximately... fifteen minutes ago. We didn't even catch the end of his blood loss."
The Policeman sighs, making a notation. The world outside boy's immediate space continues to blur around him: the shouting, the weeping, the relentless sirens.
INT. ???
A blinding, soft white replaces the chaos.
The ringing in his ears fades, replaced by a sound like distant, low-frequency water.
He is floating. He has no body, yet he perceives everything.
The "draining" feeling is gone. The pain is a distant memory, like a forgotten dream.
He attempts to open his eyes, but realizes he has no eyelids to operate. He simply sees.
The white is not empty. It shifts and swirls, infused with the gray-blue hue of the rainy clouds he had seen moments before the impact.
He said, "My head is not ringing anymore. That's good."
He tries to move, to stand up, but his environment offers no resistance, no floor, no gravity. He just... exists here.
"So, this is it, then? The big sleep? It's surprisingly quiet. They don't give bed for this."
The memory of the collision flashes: the truck, the blinding speed, the thump against the pillar.
"My head burst. That's rather graphic. But I don't feel messy anymore. Clean. Like a slate wiped clear."
He focuses on the one nagging thought that plagued his final moments.
"The forgetting. What was it?"
He mentally scans the morning: Waking up late. Tea. Phone. College. Wandering. Nothing vital. Nothing that would define a life or a death.
Suddenly, a shift in the atmosphere. The gentle white begins to collect, forming a defined shape ahead of him. It's translucent, like water smoke, but solidifying.
It looks like a doorway, framed by the swirling gray-blue mist.
THE ROOM OF UNKNOWN
INT. GATEWAY
Boy drifts toward the doorway. It doesn't seem threatening, merely waiting.
As he approaches, the silence is broken by a low, rhythmic ticking sound.
TICK... TOCK... TICK... TOCK...
It's precise, ancient, and entirely out of place in this ethereal transition zone.
"Time? I thought I was done with time."
He passes through the gateway.
The environment changes drastically. He is now in a vast, empty space, lit by a soft, constant light that seems to come from nowhere. The walls, floor, and ceiling are seamless, appearing to be made of polished obsidian that reflects the light without glare.
In the center of this immense room, suspended mid-air, is a single object.
It is a beautiful, intricate pocket watch? Unknown material casing, detailed carvings. It spins slowly, catching the light. The ticking is now louder, vibrating in the silence.
Boy, or the essence of boy, hovers closer to examine it.
" A watch? Why a watch? I rarely wore one. Always used my phone."
As the watch spins, its face becomes visible. The hands are moving backward, rapidly at first, and then slowing down to a regular tick-tock.
"Backwards? Is someone rewinding ?"
He reaches out (though he has no physical hand). As his essence touches the watch, a feeling of deep, overwhelming recognition floods him.
A fleeting image of a child, age 8, holding the something, looking up at an woman.
The image vanishes.
A voice echoes in the chamber. It is neither male nor female, but resonant, like bells ringing underwater.
The voice, " You have forgotten."
Boy said, " Yes, I know! That was the last thing I thought before... crunch. But what?"
The voice, " The key. The responsibility tied to you."
Boy become shocked and asked, "Who are you ? And what responsibility? I was a college student trying to skip lectures. My biggest responsibility was remembering to charge my phone."
The Pocket Watch stops spinning. As it settles, it displays a specific time: 12:12.
The voice, "I am.. You can call me Guardian or Reaper of death."