[Apartment – Living Room]
Ephraim crouched over, the faint morning light leaking in through a sliver between his curtains. Dust swirled lazily in the air as he turned the strange object over in his hands — a yellow DVD, the crude smiley face scrawled on it in dark, dried crimson staring back at him like it knew something he didn't.
He glanced at the TV, then back at the disc. Curiosity tightened its grip.
"Alright… let's see what the hell you are."
He crossed the small living room, his bare feet padding quietly against the creaky wood floor. The DVD player sat beneath the TV, a relic from another decade. Ephraim slid the disc in and pressed play.
The TV screen flickered, the glow painting his apartment in ghostly light.
A slideshow began.
A man — tall, lean, wearing a red mask stretched into a wide, unnatural smile — filled the first image. His dreadlocks, white as fresh snow, framed his head like a crown of winter. He wore a deep blue, expensive suit jacket left unbuttoned, black tailored pants, and polished brown leather shoes that gleamed under the camera's flash. Behind him, hunched and trembling, stood an old man — the vendor Ephraim had saved just days earlier.
A familiar voice filled the room — not from the man, but from the speakers.
It was music.
"Step in the Name of Love" by R. Kelly crooned over the slideshow, the warm melody at odds with the tension that began to coil in Ephraim's chest.
Each new picture pushed the masked man — Homicide — closer to the old man. In the next, his hand was on the man's shoulder. Then… the knife appeared.
Slide after slide, Homicide stabbed — hip, collarbone, neck — each frozen image capturing the downward arc of his arm, the gleam of the blade, the old man's helpless grimace.
Ephraim's hands clamped over his mouth. His pulse pounded in his ears.
"Oh my god…" he whispered through his fingers.
The slideshow didn't stop.
As the music reached its smooth, almost cheerful crescendo, the images shifted. Now Homicide danced — moving with rhythm, pointing at the camera, stepping side-to-side, dipping with the beat as the lyrics played:
"Step, step, side to side… round and round, dip it now… Separate, bring it back… Let me see you do the love slide…"
Then the dance break ended. The stabbing resumed like it had never been interrupted.
The final slides showed Homicide crouched over the old man's body, striking smug poses for the camera, the blood still wet beneath him. The music's chorus swelled again:
"Clap in the name of love… Groove in the name of love…"
The last image burned into Ephraim's mind.
The TV flickered — then detonated.
A concussive blast of glass and sparks sent Ephraim sprawling backward into the wall. He groaned, shaking off the haze, using the wall as a crutch to stand. His knees trembled. His chest rose and fell too quickly.
"I… I gotta find Rika and Buddy. I gotta find them before he does."
He snatched his jacket and bolted for the door.
[Lobby]
The air downstairs smelled faintly of coffee and floor polish. Ephraim skidded to the front desk, planting his palms against the counter.
"Hey — I'm looking for a woman, about yea-high, red hair, dresses like an ex-Marine. Name's Rika Cider. You seen her?"
The receptionist, a bored man in a polo shirt, shook his head lazily. "Nah, man."
"What? Come on, you're the receptionist, just look it up."
"Can't do that. Against code."
"Against code?" Ephraim's voice sharpened. "You've probably seen me with her on TV — I was on her team, fighting a Dominican guy. I need to see her, there's a serial killer on the loose—"
The man snorted. "You? On TV? Ha Ha nice try Yeah, right. If I saw you on TV, I'd know about it."
"Come on, man! Her life could be at risk."
"You think you're the first to try this trick? Oldest one in the book."
Ephraim blinked. "How many times have people tried this?"
"Too many. Now get the hell out."
Ephraim groaned, throwing his hands up, and stomped toward the stairwell.
[5th Floor]
He kicked open Buddy's door — the bang echoing down the hall — only to find an empty, perfectly tidy room. A lone meditation pad sat in the center, untouched.
Ephraim stared for a beat, then spun on his heel.
"Alright, man, fuck this shit."
He tromped back down to the lobby, casting the receptionist a dirty glare before pushing out the main doors.
[Outside]
Two men stood there, framed against the afternoon light. One wore a crisp white suit, the other black. Their faces were unreadable.
"You Mr. Boichi?" the man in white asked.
"Depends who's asking."
They exchanged a silent glance.
"We were ordered to keep watch over you," said the man in black, "in case you try to leave."
Ephraim groaned. "Ah, shit. Nero sent you. Fine — if we're gonna do this, we need help first. You know who Rika Cider is? Go talk to the receptionist, find out where she is."
The two men disappeared inside. Ephraim could hear raised voices, a thud, then a few minutes later they emerged again.
"Fifth floor," said the man in black.
Ephraim's jaw dropped. "Goddamnit, I was just up there."
[5th Floor – Rika's Room]
They stopped across from Buddy's room. The man in black pointed.
"This is hers."
"You've gotta be kidding me…"
Ephraim kicked open the door. Rika lay sprawled on the bed, one arm behind her head, looking bored.
"Rika! Oh my god, we gotta get out of here — there's a serial killer on the loose and he might come after you!"
She stared past him at the suited men, then back at Ephraim. "Nice try, Ephraim. You're the fourth person today to try this stunt. Oldest trick in the book. Get out before I call security."
Ephraim's eyes went wide. "What is wrong with this place?! This is the second time I've heard that today! I'm serious, there's a killer on the island—"
"Oh, really?"
"Yes, really! We gotta get the hell out of here!"
"Well, why didn't you just say so?"
Ephraim grit his teeth. "Rika, if you weren't my friend, I'd choke the life outta you."
She laughed. "Oh, silly Boichi, you couldn't if you tried."
The suited men shrugged and walked out.
[Main Road]
The city hummed around them as they walked. Ephraim led the way, the sun catching in his hair, Rika and the suited men trailing behind.
"There's one more person we gotta find," he said.
"Who?"
"My cousin, Johnny Bravinzala."
"Do we have to? He kinda beat my ass."
"Yes we do — he's my flesh and blood."
Rika groaned. "Fine. Where?"
"Oh, I know where he is."
[Dominican Bar]
The moment they stepped inside, the scent of rum and fried food filled the air. A jukebox blared Moviendo la Cadera, the bass vibrating through the floorboards.
Johnny was easy to spot — two bottles in hand, dancing atop the bar counter like the king of the world.
"Papi!" he shouted when he saw Ephraim.
Ephraim stormed toward him. "Johnny, we gotta go—"
Johnny's eyes flicked to the suited men. "Woah, papi, you bring pigs to me? Shame on you."
"What? No — Nero put these guys on me. They're babysitting me till I solve some case."
Johnny smirked. "Ah, you just like me, papi. You do something bad, pigs wanna know where gems went. But I like dog, papi — I bury gems. Why you no bury gems?"
"Johnny, I don't know what the hell you're talking about. We gotta go."
"On margarita night? No can do, papi."
He rolled his tongue and broke into another salsa routine, shimmying away.
"Don't you try to salsa that shit off—get back here!" Ephraim chased him, weaving through the crowd.
They bumped into a man in a blue suit and matching fedora, deep in a blackjack game.
"Watch where you're going, mudblood — I'm on a hot streak," the man barked without looking up.
"Yeah, yeah, up yours, pal," Ephraim shot back, dragging Johnny by the arm.
Johnny stopped dancing, reading the seriousness in Ephraim's face. "Ok, papi. I see you no fib. We go."
The group pushed toward the exit, the music still pounding behind them.
Created and Written by Mateo Woodson
Written and Storyboarded by John Fallout