INT. THE WHISKEY TOMB - NIGHT
A narrow downtown speakeasy. Low tin ceiling, amber light, a long bar of scarred mahogany. Above it, a hand-painted sign, THE WHISKEY TOMB, crowned with a single golden ear of barley.
The door bangs open. A wedge of street light, rain, and the wail of distant sirens spills in.
RAIYA fills the doorway. Five feet of ancient linen and ruin, hunched and dripping, one bandaged arm dragging along the doorframe. She SHAMBLES forward.
Bedlam. Patrons SCREAM. Stools topple. A highball shatters on the floorboards. The crowd stampedes out the back, leaving a single overturned chair spinning to a stop.
Only the BARTENDER remains, 50s, bow tie, bar rag frozen mid-wipe, trapped against the back shelf with nowhere to run.
Raiya stops at the bar. Her wrapped head swivels, slow and terrible. Her eyes, the only living thing in that ravaged face, lock onto a bottle on the top shelf. Its label bears the same golden ear of barley.
She lifts one trembling, bandaged finger and points.
Bartender
(barely a whisper)
That… that what you want, lady?
A low, dry RASP from somewhere beneath the gauze. Yes.
The Bartender swallows hard. With shaking hands he takes down the bottle, works the cork, it POPS, and slides it to her.
Raiya seizes the bottle. Raises it to the slit where her mouth should be. Tilts. Nothing. The gauze is bound too tight. Whiskey runs uselessly down her chin and patters to the floor.
A wretched, frustrated MOAN.
The Bartender hesitates. Then, some small, insane mercy, he hands her his bar knife.
Bartender
…Here. For the… for your mouth.
Raiya takes the knife. Slits the linen at her lips. Drops the blade. Lifts the bottle again, and DRINKS. Voraciously, desperately, the whole bottle vanishing in long, greedy pulls until the last amber drop is gone.
She lowers the empty bottle. Beat.
The bandages begin to GLOW. Faint at first, then white-hot, SIZZLING. They cinch tighter, winding around her with a sound like wind through dry wheat. LIGHT erupts from every seam.
The Bartender throws an arm across his eyes.
The light dies.
Where the monster stood: a young woman of impossible beauty. Dark eyes, golden skin, the last wisp of linen sliding from her shoulder. RAIYA, restored, radiant, breathing hard.
She studies her own smooth hand in wonder. Then sets the empty bottle gently on the bar.
Raiya
(an ancient accent, a voice like sand)
Where… is he?
The Bartender can only stare, then point a weak finger toward the door and the city beyond.
Raiya turns toward the night, somewhere out there is a face she has chased across three thousand years, and walks out into the rain. Steady. Alive. For now.
FADE OUT.
