RED LINE

Chapter I

Through the view of binoculars, we watch an isolated, small house nestled deep in the woods. The loud, crunching sound of someone munching—unseen but close—disrupts the quiet. After a moment, the front door opens. A mysterious woman steps out, carrying a duffel bag. She shuts the door gently, places the bag down, and crouches. She snaps a photo of the ground, then stands and slowly backs away to capture a shot of the entire house.

The sunlight filters through the trees—it’s daytime.

She moves forward, back to the porch, crouches again, and slips the camera into the bag. Slinging it over her shoulder, she turns and heads into the woods to her right. Through the binoculars, our view stays locked on her as she mounts her bike, adjusts the bag across her shoulder, puts on her helmet, and rides off, disappearing into the trees.

The binoculars lower, revealing the holder—a man sitting in the driver’s seat of a parked car, positioned at a distance from the house. He grabs a half-eaten burger from the passenger seat, takes a big bite, then sets it down. Picking up a walkie-talkie, he waits until his mouth is clear, then says,

“All clear on my end. Yours?”

On a street across town, another man sits in a parked vehicle, binoculars in hand, watching a grocery store. He speaks into his walkie-talkie:

“All clear over here too. Commence the drop-off. You’ve got like…” — he checks his watch — “twenty minutes.”

“You sure about that?” asks Binocular 1.

“Of course I’m sure! What do you think I am—a f*****g rookie?” Binocular 2 snaps back.

“Alright, alright. I’m on it,” Binocular 1 mutters, setting down the walkie-talkie and finishing the last bite of his burger. He wipes his mouth, pulls on his gloves, picks up a small black gift box and the walkie-talkie, then steps out of the car, heading toward the house.

“So… got any idea who that lady was?” Binocular 2 asks through the walkie.

“No. And no, I didn’t see her face,” Binocular 1 replies.

“How’d you know I was gonna ask that?”

“I wasn’t gonna ask that,” Binocular 2 protests.

“You weren’t?” Binocular 1 asks.

“…Yeah, I was gonna ask that—but it ain’t our damn job to find out,” Binocular 2 replies.

Binocular 1 steps onto the porch and carefully places the gift box by the door. “At least we agree on one thing,” he mutters, backing away from the box as he pulls out his phone to take a picture.

Outside the grocery store, Randoll—a bald, fifty-year-old man with a broad, heavy build—steps out with a grocery bag in hand. Despite his size, his movements are stiff, almost mechanical, like his body doesn’t quite know how to act human. Binocular 2 spots him through the lens.

“Oh, s**t. Round it up, men—he’s out,” he says into the walkie-talkie.

Binocular 1 is still on the porch, snapping a picture of the box.

“Alright, how far out is he?” he asks.

Binocular 2 scans the area through his binoculars. “What the…” he mutters, eyes widening.

“What?” Binocular 1 asks through the walkie.

“Get the f**k outta there, man—I think I lost him!”

Binocular 1 quickly shoves his phone into his pocket. “s**t, how the hell did you manage that?” he says, hurrying through the woods toward his car.

“Stay sharp, man. This guy’s a real creeper,” Binocular 2 warns through the radio.

Binocular 1 reaches his car, jumps in, and turns the key. “Yeah, no s**t—that was his code name,” he mutters. The engine roars, but the car won’t move—it’s stuck. He opens the door and freezes. Both tires are slashed.

“How did he—” Binocular 1’s words die in his throat as he looks up. Randoll, the target, stands silently in front of the car.

“f**k!” he shouts, leaping out of the car and sprinting into the woods. The walkie-talkie blares with Binocular 2’s voice:

“Hey! What the hell’s going on? Hey, man! Hey!”

Randoll just stands there, indifferent, watching the man vanish among the trees. Then he turns, walks back to the house, pauses over the package, stares at it for a long moment—and picks it up before heading inside.

In the woods, Binocular 1 runs for his life, dodging trees and leaping over roots. He jumps a fallen branch but lands in a pit of thick mud that clings to his feet, dragging him down.

“Ah, damn it!” He struggles to break free. A branch snaps behind him. His breath catches. He looks up—

and freezes.

Randoll is there, moving toward him, calm and silent.

“Wait—don’t—”

Randoll’s fist slams into his face, cutting the plea short.

Inside the vehicle parked outside the grocery store, Binocular 2 hurriedly assembles a pistol, his breath hitching in panic. When he’s done, he takes a deep breath and steps out, heading toward the woods behind him.

But halfway there, he stops, hesitates, and turns back. Getting into the car again, he drops the pistol onto the seat. He rubs his face with his palm in frustration.

“s**t,” Binocular 2 mutters, picking up his phone.

He dials the most recent number—it rings. He taps his finger anxiously against the dashboard.

“...Yes?” a deep voice answers.

“Uh, yeah, um... we ran into a little bit of trouble. Mission might be compromised. He—he has my brother. Mardie, I mean.”

“Is the drop-off complete?” the voice asks.

“Um... yeah, I think Mardie made it before... look, we might need some help—”

“Stand by.”

The call cuts off. Binocular 2 lowers his phone, biting his nails in tension.

Suddenly, a sniper shot shatters the windshield, piercing his skull. He dies instantly. A passerby walking a dog screams in terror.

Binocular 1 blinks awake to find himself tied to a chair in a small, dimly lit room. He looks up and shivers when he sees Randoll sitting in front of him, his face partly hidden by shadow.

“Look, man, you’ve got the wrong guy,” Binocular 1 says, each breath heavy with exhaustion and fear.

Randoll stands and leaves.

“Wait—where are you going? Hey!” Binocular 1 calls out.

Randoll returns, holding a knife, and stops to stare at him in silence.

“M-man, come on...” Binocular 1 stammers, wiggling in fear, trying to break free from the chair.

Randoll turns toward the package on the table, picks it up, and examines it closely.

“Look, I’m just the delivery guy, man, I swear!” Binocular 1 pleads.

Randoll uses the knife to cut the red rope tied around the package and opens the box. Inside is a necklace with a photo pendant of his daughter—a young, beautiful woman with two kids—a CD, and a black envelope sealed with a white four-leaf clover emblem.

Randoll sets the box down on the table and opens the envelope. Inside is a single letter that reads, in bold italics: “For Agent Creeper.”

“Look, whatever this is, I had nothing to do with it. I didn’t even see my employer’s face!” Binocular 1 insists.

Randoll glances at him briefly, then turns toward the window.

Suddenly, bullets rip through the glass, splintering the walls.

Randoll dives behind a chair as gunfire tears through the room—its target clear: Binocular 1.

The barrage ends.

Binocular 1 slumps forward, lifeless. Randoll stands slowly and peers through the shattered window. In the distance, a sniper dressed in black lowers his weapon and disappears into the woods.

Randoll turns back to Binocular 1’s lifeless body, reaches into his pocket, and finds his phone destroyed by a bullet. He just stares at it.

Outside, we watch as Randoll steps out of the house.

Carrying a loaded bag, he walks to his rusty red car, climbs in, shuts the door, and drives off into the woods.

The rusty red car bursts out from behind the woods, merging onto the street. As it speeds away, a convoy of patrol cars races past in the opposite direction—heading into the woods.