Blurry Dream
Downtown never sleeps. Not when the rain falls in silver knives and the streetlights turn puddles into pools of melted gold. That’s when Sergeant Grace Douglas finds herself walking a street she doesn’t remember, led by a feeling she can’t shake. Ahead, at the border of the Tourist Trap District, a strange little joint flickers in her dreams, the Brass Dragon Café. Half American diner, half old Chinatown relic and its sign, a cheap brass dragon head, grins down at her through the mist.
Elsewhere, Dominik Stancic, cab driver and part-time philosopher of the night, coasts through the neon veins of the City. In the back seat sits a woman with long black hair and a white fur coat that screams old money and new secrets. She asks with a somewhat foreign accent to be dropped at the Helix Labs Building, but Dominik’s mind drifts to the same dream that’s been haunting his nights: the café, the dragon, the smell of wet asphalt and coffee. He almost misses the place but, eventually, she pays, steps into the rain, and disappears behind the glass doors of the building. His next fare, a chatty tourist named Steven, wants a lift to the oceanfront, the touristic district east of town. Dominik drives him there, the radio muttering election news, the storm brewing over the skyline.
Meanwhile, Adriano Julianis, mayoral candidate at Parkside and darling of the evening news, arrives at the Brass Dragon Café himself. He’s been dreaming of the place too. Between press briefings and backroom deals, curiosity wins. The café’s closed however. Across the street, the Tourist Information Center buzzes under the rain, housed in an old fire station turned visitor hub. A superb 3D chalk mural sprawls at its entrance: a muscled Greek hero straining against invisible weight, drawn in impossible 3D anamorphic perspective.
That’s when Grace recognizes Julianis and strikes up a conversation, professional courtesy between cop and politician. A lost child interrupts them, soon found again by his parents. The family hurries away, the kid skipping circles around the chalk drawing as thunder shakes the street. Moments later, Dominik’s cab rolls up. Three strangers, bound by the same recurring dream, find themselves standing in the downpour, watching the City dissolve behind veils of rain.
The shared dream of the Brass Dragon Café brings together three strangers: Sergeant Grace Douglas, Dominik Stancic, and Adriano Julianis.
The mist thickens.
The Fall
A flash, motion in the corner of Adriano’s eye. A body plummets from the opposite building. Dark hair. Yellow coat. Blood blooming in the air. Then, nothing. She vanishes before she hits the pavement.
Grace, Dominik, and Adriano stand frozen, the roar of rain swallowing their disbelief. Adriano’s heart clenches, he swears he saw her face. The secretary of his rival, Maggie Forge, and rumour has it, more than a colleague: a secret lover.
The three of them still stunned, a woman bumps into them, soaked and apologetic, saying she’s just trying to get back to the Acacia Boutique Hotel, where she works the front desk. She vanishes into the rain.
The trio crosses the street to investigate the spot where the body should be. No corpse, only soaked clothes: a yellow raincoat and a bloodstained white fur coat. Grace crouches down, water dripping from her hat brim. Inside the coat: a wallet, thick with fresh cash, an ID that reads Lady Mary Brancaster. Everything about it feels off: too new, too clean, too fake.
The lady that fell seems to be the Maggie Forge’s secretary and secret lover, that Dominik has just dropped in front of the Helix Labs Building. The ID reads Lady Mary Brancaster which is not the woman’s true identity. She was hiding something, or from someone.
Rain mixes with red streaks. Chalk dust swirls down the drain. The only trace left of the fall is the faint scent of iron.
They look up at the tower across the street — the View Restaurant, perched atop the office block adjoining Helix Labs. The place where she must have fallen from.
The only things left from the woman are her clothes, her wallet and a bit of chalk disolving in the pouring rain.
The View from Above
Adriano flashes a smile and some influence, and soon the three find themselves ushered into the panoramic restaurant under the pretense of “a private lunch”. The waiter, young and polite, mentions discreetly that members of Julianis’ own political party are dining here today.
Political figures from Adriano Julianis’ campaign are present at The View Restaurant.
They step out onto the balcony, the City sprawled beneath them like a dream half-erased by fog. Neon from the Tourist Trap District bleeds into the clouds. Dominik spots something glistening near the railing, dark droplets trailing toward the upper level: blood. He nods to Adriano, and together they climb the maintenance stairs to the rooftop while Grace keeps watch.
Up there, tables and chairs lie stacked against the storm. A smear of blood near the edge. Wind howls between the metal rails.
Then, movement.
A Lion on the Rooftop
Out of the fog, it leaps.
A massive lion, golden and furious, strikes at Adriano with claws like blades. The politician barely avoids being torn apart and quickly raises a hand, summoning shards of frost from his fingertips, freezing the beast’s face in a mask of ice. Dominik shouts and Grace runs to the rooftop as she draws a spectral greatsword out of nowhere that hums with divine weight.
The lion roars and jumps towards the ground. Its form ripples, flattening, twisting until it becomes pure chalk. A living 3D anamorphic drawing sliding across the wet rooftop, darting between puddles like a reflection gone mad.
Grace’s blade strikes the ground, useless. Adriano staggers as the hide from the lion seems impenetrable. That’s when Grace remembers the mural from the Tourist Information Center: the Greek hero fighting invisible air. Not just any hero… Heracles.
The lion is the Nemean Lion, escaped from the chalk mural of Heracles at the Tourist Information Center.
Dominik, voice echoing with something older than the storm, channels his mythical powers and speaks in ancient Greek. The lion pauses, nostrils flaring. Its deep, rumbling voice answers:
Nemean Lion: Who are you, mortal, who speaks my tongue but wears no face of my enemy of old?
And for a moment, the City forgets to breathe.
A Lady at the Bar
Back inside, a blonde woman leans on the counter. She orders a drink, eyes flicking to the terrace.
Blond Woman: Funny, Mr. Julianis having a quiet meeting while his friends toast inside. Makes one wonder what secrets are being shared.
The young waiter polishes a glass, his reflection warped in the curve.
Young Waiter: Careful, ma’am. In this town, curiosity tips worse than bad service.
She smiles, a crystalline laugh cutting through the jazz and thunder outside.
Cut to black. Roll credits.