CASTING SIDE — TWIN
INT. HOUSTON SAFEHOUSE — NIGHT
Twin crouches over a bank of monitors. The glow paints her face blue; sweat beads at her hairline. Multiple camera feeds scroll — street corners, loading docks, a blurred sedan idling too long. She taps the screen, fast, practiced.
Her phone is cradled to her ear. Her voice is tight, urgent — but controlled.
TWIN
(into phone, urgent)
“Shots fired on three corners. They’re testing us, Mickey. Houston’s about to go up in flames.”
A beat. Static. Then MICKY’s voice comes through the line — calm, razor-focused, the voice of someone used to ordering chaos.
MICKY (V.O.)
“Hold the streets. Let them push — I want to see the pieces move. Sugar keeps control. Nobody dies unless I say so. Keep the product moving. I’m watching everything.”
Twin lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh — half relief, half fear.
She flips through windows: shipment manifests, GPS ping trails, the name of a driver she recognizes. Her thumb runs a quick code across the screen. A small map flashes: three red dots pulsing.
TWIN
(into mic, to team)
“Lockdown Alpha. Block the east corner; Marcos — you and Dime feed false traffic to the west. No one leaves the perimeter. If Sugar calls, you answer. Understood?”
A chorus of quick confirmations crackle back.
She watches the feed of a corner where figures press against a wall, talking. One of them raises a hand — too high. Twin’s fingers hover above the keyboard.
TWIN
(soft, to herself)
“This is the moment. One wrong move, people die. But I’ve got Micky’s back — and if anyone tries to take her down, I handle it myself.”
A text pops up mid-screen: “They’re testing Houston. Ready when you are.” — from an unknown burner. Twin’s face hardens.
Her eyes catch a live feed of a delivery truck. The driver looks nervous; his hands shake on the wheel. Twin opens a private channel.
TWIN
(into channel, steady)
“Driver 7 — you hear me? Keep on schedule. Don’t deviate. You see anything off, you call Code Red and hold position. Do not engage.”
Driver voice — thin, scared — replies, “Copy. Just—there’s two cars riding me.”
Twin glances at a separate monitor where a shadowed SUV eases toward the dock. She zooms, enhancing the feed. The license plate blurs — then resolves into something familiar.
Her jaw tightens — it’s a plate she’s logged before, a name that means blood in her world.
She slams a hand on the console. Her voice shifts — no longer purely tactical, threaded with personal warning.
TWIN
(into phone, to Micky, low)
“They’ve got a SUV on the south approach. Same plate as last week. If that’s who I think it is, they want a message. I’m not letting them send one through our people.”
MICKY (V.O.)
(cold, businesslike)
“Do what you gotta do. Clean, quick. I don’t want heat unless it benefits us. No crossfire. You take the shot, you tell me after.”
Twin closes her eyes for a fraction — a memory of other nights, other shots, other losses. She opens them then, all business.
She pulls up a list: names, cuts, contingencies. Her thumb skips to one marked “Priority — Protect M”.
TWIN
(into channel, clipped)
“Team: If south SUV moves past 20 yards, intercept. Non-lethal first. If they return fire, neutralize and extract. Marcos — you pull camera three and loop it. Dime — you shadow the driver. If they make a play for the truck, you take the tail.”
Static. Orders acknowledged.
A new text — from Maquiness — hits her phone. It reads: “If anyone tries to take her down, you handle it.” The message is short. The implication is longer.
Twin’s lips curve — not a smile. Something like gratitude and obligation.
She moves to a second console and pulls up a live audio feed from inside the truck. Voices. Snatches of profanity, a laughter that’s too loud.
TWIN
(muttering, focused)
“Keep it moving. Keep it clean.”
She hits a hidden key. The truck’s feed drops out for thirty seconds — a looped delay takes over. In those thirty seconds, two figures near the dock shift — one reaches into a coat.
Twin’s breath freezes. The seconds stretch like chewing glass.
She slams her palm down, hard.
TWIN
(yelling now, decisive)
“Now! Intercept now! Marcos — go! Dime, tail, tail now!”
The room explodes into motion. Footsteps thump. Radios scream. Twin watches their progress on three screens at once, each feed a heartbeat.
On screen: the two figures are moved off the dock by quick, efficient hands — restrained, bundled. No shots fired. The truck pulls away, continuing its route like nothing happened. The SUV screeches and peels off into the rain.
Twin exhales, long and shaky. Her hand finds the edge of the console and squeezes until her knuckles blanch.
She leans back, the adrenaline ebbing into a tired, fierce calm.
Her phone buzzes again. A short audio clip — Micky’s laugh, low and satisfied: “Good. Clean.”
TWIN
(soft, to the room)
“Good. Keep eyes for forty-eight. They’ll test again. They always do.”
She toggles to a blank screen and types a quick log: “22:13 — Incident contained. No casualties. Suspects detained. Route clear.” She hits send.
Then, quieter — to herself, to the century of nights she’s carried — she says:
TWIN
(quiet, resolute)
“Let’s make this right — the only way we know how.”
A beat. The monitors glow. Houston breathes under the watch of her fingers.