Scarlet Red Studios
A broken car, riddled with bullet holes, its engine dying, slowly rolls to a stop. The tires screech, the metal groans, and with a final gasp, the car collides into a brick wall.
A long silence. Then—
The driver's door swings open.
Archer Creed stumbles out. His suit, once pristine, is soaked in blood. A gash on his forehead drips crimson into his eyes. He barely breathes, his fingers shaking.
He reaches inside his coat, not for his wounds, not for a phone…
For his gun.
A custom-made revolver—steel cold in his hands. Still intact. Still his. His father's last gift.
A weak, bitter smirk touches his lips.
Then—his knees buckle.
Archer collapses onto the cold, wet pavement. His breath shudders. His vision fades. The world spins.
Sirens wail in the distance.
FLASHBACK – A Distant Memory
Laughter echoes in the air.
A younger Archer, no more than eight years old, runs through a sunlit field, giggling, his small hands gripping his father's rough, calloused fingers.
JAMES CREED, a man of quiet strength, lifts his son into the air, spinning him around. Archer's laughter fills the sky.
"Faster, Dad! Faster!"
James chuckles. "One day, kiddo, you'll be too big for this."
Archer grins. "Never!"
FLASHBACK ENDS.
BACK TO PRESENT.
Lying on the pavement, Archer Creed gasps awake.
His hand grips the revolver like a lifeline.
His father's last gift. His only connection to the past.
The world around him fades into chaos.
And in his eyes… only fire remains.
INT. BACK-ALLEY CLINIC – NIGHT
A flickering bulb hums in the dimly lit room. The air reeks of antiseptic, old blood, and cigarette smoke. A metal fan creaks above, barely pushing the heat away.
SLAM.
The clinic door swings open. Archer Creed staggers in, drenched in blood. His breath is ragged, his movements sluggish. A crimson trail follows him as he limps forward, gripping his side where a deep gash seeps through his torn shirt.
Behind the counter, DR. MILES CARTER—a man in his late 50s, unshaven, tired eyes—freezes mid-puff of his cigarette. His face turns pale as he sees the infamous man standing before him.
DR. CARTER
(stammering)
"What the hell happened to you?"
Archer doesn't answer. He pulls a chair out and collapses onto it, wincing as pain shoots through his body. He leans forward, unholstering his custom-made revolver and placing it on the table. His bloodied fingers trace its barrel.
ARCHER (low, exhausted)
"They tried to take it."
Carter exhales sharply, crushing his cigarette into an overflowing ashtray. He grabs a bottle of whiskey and a needle.
DR. CARTER
"Who did?"
Archer doesn't answer, just stares at the revolver.
Carter sighs and rolls up his sleeves, dipping the needle in alcohol. He steps forward, kneeling beside Archer, inspecting his wounds—knife slashes, bruises, bullet grazes.
DR. CARTER
"You need a hospital, Creed. You look like hell."
Archer lets out a faint smirk, eyes half-lidded.
ARCHER
"Been there before."
Carter starts stitching a deep gash on Archer's ribs. Blood oozes, staining the doctor's gloves.
DR. CARTER (gritting teeth, stitching tight)
"This ain't the first time you've crawled in here half-dead… but it's been a while. Thought you quit?"
Archer exhales, eyes distant.
ARCHER
"I did." (beat)
"For her."
Carter stops. He knows who Archer is talking about. He lets out a sigh, shaking his head.
DR. CARTER
"And where's your wife now?"
Archer stares at the ceiling, eyes dark.
ARCHER (soft, bitter)
"Gone."
Silence lingers. Only the sound of the needle piercing flesh remains.
Carter finishes stitching, cutting the thread with his teeth. He wipes his hands, then looks at Archer, eyes filled with something between pity and respect.
DR. CARTER
"You're gonna kill them, aren't you?"
Archer slowly reaches for his revolver. His fingers curl around the grip.
He looks at Carter.
ARCHER (cold, resolute)
"Why? She betrayed me, she's not dead."
Archer Returns Home – A Man Trying to Leave His Past Behind
The door creaked open as Archer Creed stepped inside his dimly lit apartment, his movements slow, measured—like a man carrying a weight far heavier than exhaustion. His white dress shirt was soaked with blood, sticking to his skin like a second layer of flesh, but he didn't care. His fingers tightened around the custom-made revolver, his father's last gift, as he carefully placed it on the table.
For a long moment, he just stood there, staring at it. The revolver wasn't just a weapon. It was a memory. A promise. A curse.
Exhaling deeply, he reached for a small suitcase beneath the bed, unzipped it, and placed the revolver inside. He locked it. Safe. He wasn't using it again. Not now. Not ever.
His eyes drifted across the room, settling on the Glock 34 sitting on the table—a relic of his past life as the Hunter, a name that once sent chills through the underworld. He walked over, picked it up, turned it in his hands. The weight was familiar, almost comforting. But comfort wasn't what he wanted anymore.
With a sudden motion, he tossed the gun into the garbage can. It landed with a dull thud. Final. Absolute.
Archer ran a hand through his messy, blood-matted hair, his breathing uneven. The past is over.
But deep down, he knew the Justice Holders wouldn't let him go that easily.
And neither would fate.
Archer lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Sleep refused to come. Every time he closed his eyes, the past came rushing back—his father's final moments in the hospital, the weak smile James gave him before the machines went silent.
Then Alisa. Her laughter. The warmth of her touch. The way she used to rest her head on his shoulder.
But in the darkness of his mind, those moments twisted. The hospital room turned cold. The warmth of Alisa's touch faded. Everything he loved was slipping away, like sand through his fingers.
His breathing grew heavy. He turned to his side, staring at the suitcase that held his father's revolver. His grip tightened on the sheets.
No matter how much he tried to leave the past behind, it refused to let him go.
———
FROM SCARLET RED STUDIOS
WITH NEW AUTHOR CAME NEW STORYLINE....
THE MOST REALISTIC GUN-FU AND MARTIAL ARTS NOVEL...
FROM AUTHOR SAB,
ARCHER CREED
PART 1
Cliffhanger—
Archer turned to his side, staring at the suitcase that held his father's revolver. His grip tightened on the sheets.
Then—
A sound.
A faint shuffle outside the house. Barely noticeable, but Archer's instincts flared. He sat up, listening.
Silence.
His eyes darted to the Glock 34 still in the trash. A part of him told him to ignore it. To let it go.
But he couldn't.
Because peace doesn't last forever.
CUT TO BLACK.