Residue of a Former Occupant
One night to be someone else. That's what the ticket promised. But when the sun rose, the carnival was gone, and Julian was still wearing a stranger's skin, a stranger's life, and a stranger's enemies. Now he has to piece together a life he never lived, just to survive the day.
TITLE: RESIDUE OF A FORMER OCCUPANT
INT. GRIMY APARTMENT - BEDROOM - DAWN
Dust motes dance in the thin, grey light slanting through a dirty window. The room is a mess of discarded clothes and empty takeout containers.
JULIAN (30s, but not his body) lurches out of a tangled mess of sheets. He's unsteady, his movements clumsy, disconnected.
He looks down at his legs. They're too long, corded with muscle he doesn't recognize. He stumbles, catching himself on a rickety nightstand.
INT. GRIMY APARTMENT - BATHROOM - CONTINUOUS
Julian staggers into the small, grimy bathroom. He flicks a switch. A single, bare bulb above the mirror HUMS to life, casting harsh shadows.
He looks up.
A stranger stares back from the cracked, stained mirror. A man with dark, hollow eyes, a three-day stubble, and a small, jagged scar bisecting his left eyebrow.
Julian's breath catches. He slowly raises his right hand. The stranger in the mirror copies the movement perfectly.
He reaches out, his fingers trembling, and touches the cold glass. Then, his own cheek. The stranger’s cheek. The rough stubble is real.
His eyes glaze over. The world warps.
FLASHBACK - EXT. CARNIVAL - NIGHT
SUPER-SATURATED COLORS. The air is thick with the smell of popcorn and ozone.
A TENT. A swirling, hypnotic purple sign hangs above it, glowing in the dark: *One Ticket, A New You. For A Night.*
Julian—in his own, softer, paler body—hands a bright orange ticket to a WOMAN with piercing SILVER EYES. She smiles, a knowing, unsettling expression.
A DIZZYING RUSH of color and light. A sensation of falling up.
END FLASHBACK
INT. GRIMY APARTMENT - BATHROOM - CONTINUOUS
Julian snaps back to the present, gasping. The grimy bathroom surrounds him again. The carnival is gone.
He rips the grey, sweat-stained t-shirt off.
The stranger's torso is a roadmap of faded tattoos. A raven in mid-flight covers the left pectoral. A coil of thorny vines wraps around a bicep.
His gaze falls to his hands. The knuckles are split, scabbed over, and bruised a deep purple. He prods the ribs on his right side, flinching at the sharp, electric pain. A violent, purple-black bruise blooms across his skin.
This is a fighter's body.
Julian backs away from the mirror, horrified.
INT. GRIMY APARTMENT - MAIN ROOM - MOMENTS LATER
Julian, now shirtless, frantically searches the main room. His eyes land on a worn leather wallet on the bedside table.
He snatches it up. Fumbles it open.
CLOSE ON - DRIVER'S LICENSE
The photo matches the face from the mirror. The name reads: COREY BLACK.
Beneath the license: two hundred pounds in cash and a single, strange token. A heavy iron coin, cold to the touch, stamped with an intricate labyrinth.
His eyes scan the room, landing on a small, steel safe tucked into the bottom of a wardrobe.
He stares at it. A flicker of something not his own crosses his face. An instinct.
He kneels. Without thinking, his fingers find the dial. They move with a surety that is not his.
SOUND of the tumblers clicking precisely.
27 Right.
14 Left.
32 Right.
A loud, definitive CLICK echoes in the silent apartment as the lock disengages.
He pulls the heavy door open.
Inside: a handgun, heavy and cold, and a small, leather-bound notebook.
He picks up the notebook, his hands still shaking. He flips it open.
CLOSE ON - NOTEBOOK PAGE
A list of names and addresses written in a sharp, aggressive hand. Next to some of the names, single-word annotations:
* Marcus Thorne - PAID
* Leo Finch - PENDING
* Jenna Riley - FLED
A ledger. Julian’s stomach churns. He’s in the body of a thug. A debt collector.
BRRRZZZZT! BRRRZZZZT!
A mobile phone on the kitchen counter vibrates aggressively, skittering across the formica. UNKNOWN NUMBER flashes on the screen.
Julian stares at it. His heart hammers against Corey's bruised ribs. To answer is to become Corey. To ignore it... is what?
He lurches forward, his hand clumsy as he snatches the phone and swipes to answer. He puts it to his ear.
JULIAN
> (a low gravel)
> Yeah?
The voice that comes out is not his. It's a deep, rough thing. Corey's voice.
SYNTHESIZED VOICE (V.O.)
> Where have you been? You have the package?
Julian's mind races. Package? The gun? The book? He says nothing.
SYNTHESIZED VOICE (V.O.)
> Don't go silent on me, Corey. You know the deal. The exchange is tonight. Usual place. Don't be late. And don't get any funny ideas. We know what you did.
CLICK. The line goes dead.
Julian stands frozen, phone clutched in his hand. What did Corey do?
He has to run. Disappear. But where? He’s wearing a wanted man’s face.
KNOCK! KNOCK!
Two sharp, authoritative raps on the front door. Loud. Final. Like a gavel.
Julian freezes, every muscle in this new body tensing for a fight. He moves with a sudden, surprising stealth—Corey's stealth—creeping to the door.
He presses his eye to the peephole.
PEEPHOLE POV - The distorted lens shows two broad-shouldered MEN in ill-fitting suits. They look like bulldogs, all neck and menace. Not cops.
Julian holds his breath, backing away slowly, silently from the door.
One of the men leans forward, his eye filling the peephole, a huge, watery orb staring right at Julian. His voice comes through the wood, muffled but clear.
BULLDOG #1
> (muffled, through wood)
> We know you're in there, Corey. Open up.
INT. GRIMY APARTMENT - BEDROOM - DAWN
Dust motes dance in the thin, grey light slanting through a dirty window. The room is a mess of discarded clothes and empty takeout containers.
JULIAN (30s, but not his body) lurches out of a tangled mess of sheets. He's unsteady, his movements clumsy, disconnected.
He looks down at his legs. They're too long, corded with muscle he doesn't recognize. He stumbles, catching himself on a rickety nightstand.
INT. GRIMY APARTMENT - BATHROOM - CONTINUOUS
Julian staggers into the small, grimy bathroom. He flicks a switch. A single, bare bulb above the mirror HUMS to life, casting harsh shadows.
He looks up.
A stranger stares back from the cracked, stained mirror. A man with dark, hollow eyes, a three-day stubble, and a small, jagged scar bisecting his left eyebrow.
Julian's breath catches. He slowly raises his right hand. The stranger in the mirror copies the movement perfectly.
He reaches out, his fingers trembling, and touches the cold glass. Then, his own cheek. The stranger’s cheek. The rough stubble is real.
His eyes glaze over. The world warps.
FLASHBACK - EXT. CARNIVAL - NIGHT
SUPER-SATURATED COLORS. The air is thick with the smell of popcorn and ozone.
A TENT. A swirling, hypnotic purple sign hangs above it, glowing in the dark: *One Ticket, A New You. For A Night.*
Julian—in his own, softer, paler body—hands a bright orange ticket to a WOMAN with piercing SILVER EYES. She smiles, a knowing, unsettling expression.
A DIZZYING RUSH of color and light. A sensation of falling up.
END FLASHBACK
INT. GRIMY APARTMENT - BATHROOM - CONTINUOUS
Julian snaps back to the present, gasping. The grimy bathroom surrounds him again. The carnival is gone.
He rips the grey, sweat-stained t-shirt off.
The stranger's torso is a roadmap of faded tattoos. A raven in mid-flight covers the left pectoral. A coil of thorny vines wraps around a bicep.
His gaze falls to his hands. The knuckles are split, scabbed over, and bruised a deep purple. He prods the ribs on his right side, flinching at the sharp, electric pain. A violent, purple-black bruise blooms across his skin.
This is a fighter's body.
Julian backs away from the mirror, horrified.
INT. GRIMY APARTMENT - MAIN ROOM - MOMENTS LATER
Julian, now shirtless, frantically searches the main room. His eyes land on a worn leather wallet on the bedside table.
He snatches it up. Fumbles it open.
CLOSE ON - DRIVER'S LICENSE
The photo matches the face from the mirror. The name reads: COREY BLACK.
Beneath the license: two hundred pounds in cash and a single, strange token. A heavy iron coin, cold to the touch, stamped with an intricate labyrinth.
His eyes scan the room, landing on a small, steel safe tucked into the bottom of a wardrobe.
He stares at it. A flicker of something not his own crosses his face. An instinct.
He kneels. Without thinking, his fingers find the dial. They move with a surety that is not his.
SOUND of the tumblers clicking precisely.
27 Right.
14 Left.
32 Right.
A loud, definitive CLICK echoes in the silent apartment as the lock disengages.
He pulls the heavy door open.
Inside: a handgun, heavy and cold, and a small, leather-bound notebook.
He picks up the notebook, his hands still shaking. He flips it open.
CLOSE ON - NOTEBOOK PAGE
A list of names and addresses written in a sharp, aggressive hand. Next to some of the names, single-word annotations:
* Marcus Thorne - PAID
* Leo Finch - PENDING
* Jenna Riley - FLED
A ledger. Julian’s stomach churns. He’s in the body of a thug. A debt collector.
BRRRZZZZT! BRRRZZZZT!
A mobile phone on the kitchen counter vibrates aggressively, skittering across the formica. UNKNOWN NUMBER flashes on the screen.
Julian stares at it. His heart hammers against Corey's bruised ribs. To answer is to become Corey. To ignore it... is what?
He lurches forward, his hand clumsy as he snatches the phone and swipes to answer. He puts it to his ear.
JULIAN
> (a low gravel)
> Yeah?
The voice that comes out is not his. It's a deep, rough thing. Corey's voice.
SYNTHESIZED VOICE (V.O.)
> Where have you been? You have the package?
Julian's mind races. Package? The gun? The book? He says nothing.
SYNTHESIZED VOICE (V.O.)
> Don't go silent on me, Corey. You know the deal. The exchange is tonight. Usual place. Don't be late. And don't get any funny ideas. We know what you did.
CLICK. The line goes dead.
Julian stands frozen, phone clutched in his hand. What did Corey do?
He has to run. Disappear. But where? He’s wearing a wanted man’s face.
KNOCK! KNOCK!
Two sharp, authoritative raps on the front door. Loud. Final. Like a gavel.
Julian freezes, every muscle in this new body tensing for a fight. He moves with a sudden, surprising stealth—Corey's stealth—creeping to the door.
He presses his eye to the peephole.
PEEPHOLE POV - The distorted lens shows two broad-shouldered MEN in ill-fitting suits. They look like bulldogs, all neck and menace. Not cops.
Julian holds his breath, backing away slowly, silently from the door.
One of the men leans forward, his eye filling the peephole, a huge, watery orb staring right at Julian. His voice comes through the wood, muffled but clear.
BULLDOG #1
> (muffled, through wood)
> We know you're in there, Corey. Open up.