A Column Inch of Silence
Disgraced journalist Kenny used to chase headlines in war zones; now he writes obituaries. But when he uncovers a pattern in the deaths of the city's forgotten, a cryptic tip from an old source puts him on a collision course with a powerful CEO and a story that could be his last.
INT. NEWSPAPER ARCHIVE - NIGHT
A vast, subterranean space. Rows of looming metal shelves stretch into a dusty gloom, packed tight with bound volumes and filing cabinets. The MORGUE.
SOUND: The low, constant HUM of a dehumidifier.
Under a single, bare, caged BULB, KENNY (40s-50s), cynical and tired, sits at a cluttered desk. An island of light in the dark.
A half-written document is on his monitor. TITLE: "A Life in Flight: Remembering Albert Finch, Pigeon Fancier."
He ignores it.
Spread before him are three physical files, clippings yellowed at the edges. OBITUARIES.
CLOSE ON - THE FILES
One by one, we see the headlines he wrote:
"JOHN DOE, 47, ACCIDENTAL OVERDOSE"
"JANE MILLER, 32, FAULTY WIRING BLAMED FOR BLAZE"
"MARTHA GABLE, 81, TRAGIC FALL"
Kenny stares at a large, unfolded map of the city tacked to a corkboard. He takes three red pushpins and deliberately presses them into the map.
ANGLE ON THE MAP
The three pins form a tight, undeniable cluster over a blighted, forgotten neighborhood labeled "CANAL DISTRICT."
He leans back, the old wooden chair CREAKING in protest. He sees the thread.
His phone VIBRATES on the desk, a sharp, angry buzz in the silence.
He picks it up. A text from an UNKNOWN NUMBER.
ON SCREEN - PHONE
The text reads: "The fox hunts fastest when the hounds are sleeping." - Nana
Below it, a single attachment: a PDF file. Kenny taps it open. It's a glossy press release.
ON SCREEN - PRESS RELEASE
The header is a sharp, sterile blue logo: ISHIKAWA CORP.
The headline: "ISHIKAWA CORP UNVEILS 'PROJECT PHOENIX': A NEW DAWN FOR THE CANAL DISTRICT."
A photo shows a charismatic, impeccably dressed man: SHIRO ISHIKAWA (40s).
Kenny's eyes dart from the phone screen to the map. The hounds are sleeping upstairs. The fox is in the henhouse.
He whispers to the silent shelves.
KENNY
> He's not just regenerating the district. He's sanitizing it.
EXT. KENNY'S CAR - DAY
A battered hatchback that has seen better decades, parked on a grimy side street. Rain streaks the windows.
INT. KENNY'S CAR - CONTINUOUS
Kenny sits in the driver's seat, engine off. He flips through flimsy police reports, the jargon thick.
CLOSE ON - A REPORT
Highlighted phrases: "No witnesses." "Origin of fire undetermined." "No history of substance abuse (see coroner's notes)."
He tosses the files onto the passenger seat in disgust. A story with no questions is a story that's lying.
EXT. CANAL DISTRICT - DAY
A study in urban neglect. Boarded-up warehouses. Crumbling tenements. Weeds reclaiming cracked pavement.
Bright blue ISHIKAWA CORP signs are plastered everywhere, promising a glittering future over a decaying present.
Kenny walks the street, a ghost in a graveyard. He stops at the tenement where Martha Gable fell. He looks up at a rusted, precarious fire escape. An easy explanation.
He moves closer, eyes scanning.
CLOSE ON - THE WINDOW FRAME
Kenny's finger traces fresh SCRAPES in the rusted metal, bright and new. He looks at the window lock. It's cleaner, newer than the rest of the fitting.
VOICE (O.S.)
> Can I help you?
Kenny turns.
A MAN IN A SUIT stands there. He's built like a personal trainer, but his eyes are cold, flat. Corporate security.
KENNY
> Just admiring the architecture. A real piece of history here.
MAN IN SUIT
> It's private property. Scheduled for demolition. I'd advise you to move along.
The man doesn't blink. The threat is unspoken but clear.
KENNY
> (Raising his hands)
> Of course. Wouldn't want to get in the way of progress.
Kenny walks away, not looking back. He can feel the man's eyes burning into him.
INT. NEWSPAPER ARCHIVE - NIGHT
Kenny is back in his subterranean kingdom, typing furiously. The single bulb above casts long, dancing shadows.
ON HIS MONITOR - A flurry of activity. Property deeds. LLCs. Buy-out offers. He cross-references names, dates.
A pattern emerges. A list of names under the heading "REFUSED SALE."
John Doe. Jane Miller. Martha Gable. The last holdouts.
His phone BUZZES again. Another text from Nana.
ON SCREEN - PHONE
"A snake sheds its skin, but it is still a snake."
Followed by a string of numbers: a court docket number.
Kenny picks up his desk phone, an old rotary model. He dials a number from memory.
KENNY
> (Into phone, low)
> Franky, it's Kenny... Yeah, I know it's late. I need a favor. A big one. It's a sealed juvenile case...
MONTAGE
- Kenny listens on the phone, scribbling notes.
- His fingers fly across the keyboard, navigating arcane court databases.
- An old microfiche reader WHIRS, projecting grainy text onto a screen.
Finally, he finds it. A file pops up on his monitor.
CLOSE ON MONITOR
SEALED JUVENILE RECORD.
DEFENDANT: ISHIKAWA, SHIRO.
CHARGE: AGGRAVATED ASSAULT.
VICTIM: Property owner who refused to sell land to Ishikawa's father.
Kenny leans back, the final piece clicking into place. The chair lets out a loud, painful CREAK.
The desk phone RINGS. The sound is jarring, violent in the stillness.
He stares at it. It rings again. He picks it up.
KENNY
> (Into phone)
> Archives.
RECEPTIONIST (V.O.)
> Kenny? There's a Mr. Ishikawa here to see you.
A surge of cold adrenaline hits Kenny. He slowly places the receiver back in its cradle.
He looks around the dusty, silent archive. At the millions of stories, the recorded lives and catalogued deaths packed onto the shelves.
He is completely, utterly alone. Trapped.
SOUND: The distant DING of the elevator arriving on the ground floor, far above.
A vast, subterranean space. Rows of looming metal shelves stretch into a dusty gloom, packed tight with bound volumes and filing cabinets. The MORGUE.
SOUND: The low, constant HUM of a dehumidifier.
Under a single, bare, caged BULB, KENNY (40s-50s), cynical and tired, sits at a cluttered desk. An island of light in the dark.
A half-written document is on his monitor. TITLE: "A Life in Flight: Remembering Albert Finch, Pigeon Fancier."
He ignores it.
Spread before him are three physical files, clippings yellowed at the edges. OBITUARIES.
CLOSE ON - THE FILES
One by one, we see the headlines he wrote:
"JOHN DOE, 47, ACCIDENTAL OVERDOSE"
"JANE MILLER, 32, FAULTY WIRING BLAMED FOR BLAZE"
"MARTHA GABLE, 81, TRAGIC FALL"
Kenny stares at a large, unfolded map of the city tacked to a corkboard. He takes three red pushpins and deliberately presses them into the map.
ANGLE ON THE MAP
The three pins form a tight, undeniable cluster over a blighted, forgotten neighborhood labeled "CANAL DISTRICT."
He leans back, the old wooden chair CREAKING in protest. He sees the thread.
His phone VIBRATES on the desk, a sharp, angry buzz in the silence.
He picks it up. A text from an UNKNOWN NUMBER.
ON SCREEN - PHONE
The text reads: "The fox hunts fastest when the hounds are sleeping." - Nana
Below it, a single attachment: a PDF file. Kenny taps it open. It's a glossy press release.
ON SCREEN - PRESS RELEASE
The header is a sharp, sterile blue logo: ISHIKAWA CORP.
The headline: "ISHIKAWA CORP UNVEILS 'PROJECT PHOENIX': A NEW DAWN FOR THE CANAL DISTRICT."
A photo shows a charismatic, impeccably dressed man: SHIRO ISHIKAWA (40s).
Kenny's eyes dart from the phone screen to the map. The hounds are sleeping upstairs. The fox is in the henhouse.
He whispers to the silent shelves.
KENNY
> He's not just regenerating the district. He's sanitizing it.
EXT. KENNY'S CAR - DAY
A battered hatchback that has seen better decades, parked on a grimy side street. Rain streaks the windows.
INT. KENNY'S CAR - CONTINUOUS
Kenny sits in the driver's seat, engine off. He flips through flimsy police reports, the jargon thick.
CLOSE ON - A REPORT
Highlighted phrases: "No witnesses." "Origin of fire undetermined." "No history of substance abuse (see coroner's notes)."
He tosses the files onto the passenger seat in disgust. A story with no questions is a story that's lying.
EXT. CANAL DISTRICT - DAY
A study in urban neglect. Boarded-up warehouses. Crumbling tenements. Weeds reclaiming cracked pavement.
Bright blue ISHIKAWA CORP signs are plastered everywhere, promising a glittering future over a decaying present.
Kenny walks the street, a ghost in a graveyard. He stops at the tenement where Martha Gable fell. He looks up at a rusted, precarious fire escape. An easy explanation.
He moves closer, eyes scanning.
CLOSE ON - THE WINDOW FRAME
Kenny's finger traces fresh SCRAPES in the rusted metal, bright and new. He looks at the window lock. It's cleaner, newer than the rest of the fitting.
VOICE (O.S.)
> Can I help you?
Kenny turns.
A MAN IN A SUIT stands there. He's built like a personal trainer, but his eyes are cold, flat. Corporate security.
KENNY
> Just admiring the architecture. A real piece of history here.
MAN IN SUIT
> It's private property. Scheduled for demolition. I'd advise you to move along.
The man doesn't blink. The threat is unspoken but clear.
KENNY
> (Raising his hands)
> Of course. Wouldn't want to get in the way of progress.
Kenny walks away, not looking back. He can feel the man's eyes burning into him.
INT. NEWSPAPER ARCHIVE - NIGHT
Kenny is back in his subterranean kingdom, typing furiously. The single bulb above casts long, dancing shadows.
ON HIS MONITOR - A flurry of activity. Property deeds. LLCs. Buy-out offers. He cross-references names, dates.
A pattern emerges. A list of names under the heading "REFUSED SALE."
John Doe. Jane Miller. Martha Gable. The last holdouts.
His phone BUZZES again. Another text from Nana.
ON SCREEN - PHONE
"A snake sheds its skin, but it is still a snake."
Followed by a string of numbers: a court docket number.
Kenny picks up his desk phone, an old rotary model. He dials a number from memory.
KENNY
> (Into phone, low)
> Franky, it's Kenny... Yeah, I know it's late. I need a favor. A big one. It's a sealed juvenile case...
MONTAGE
- Kenny listens on the phone, scribbling notes.
- His fingers fly across the keyboard, navigating arcane court databases.
- An old microfiche reader WHIRS, projecting grainy text onto a screen.
Finally, he finds it. A file pops up on his monitor.
CLOSE ON MONITOR
SEALED JUVENILE RECORD.
DEFENDANT: ISHIKAWA, SHIRO.
CHARGE: AGGRAVATED ASSAULT.
VICTIM: Property owner who refused to sell land to Ishikawa's father.
Kenny leans back, the final piece clicking into place. The chair lets out a loud, painful CREAK.
The desk phone RINGS. The sound is jarring, violent in the stillness.
He stares at it. It rings again. He picks it up.
KENNY
> (Into phone)
> Archives.
RECEPTIONIST (V.O.)
> Kenny? There's a Mr. Ishikawa here to see you.
A surge of cold adrenaline hits Kenny. He slowly places the receiver back in its cradle.
He looks around the dusty, silent archive. At the millions of stories, the recorded lives and catalogued deaths packed onto the shelves.
He is completely, utterly alone. Trapped.
SOUND: The distant DING of the elevator arriving on the ground floor, far above.