Chapter 1 Second Chances Burn at Midnight

[INT. DIVE BAR – 11:47 PM, LOS ANGELES]

The bar is dimly lit with old neon signs buzzing above cracked brick walls. Music hums low. LYRA stands behind the counter, hair in a messy ponytail, a tired look on her face as she pours tequila for a sloppy couple. She's graceful, detached, and somewhere else in her mind. A storm lives in her eyes.

LYRA (V.O.)

They said reincarnation was a gift. But they never said anything about the cost of rent.

She wipes down the counter, the rag soaked with cheap vodka and cigarette ash. Her eyes drift toward the old TV above the bar showing muted news about cartel violence downtown. Her gaze hardens.

LYRA (V.O.)

I was sold out once-by blood. This time, I'll sell my own soul if I have to. But not my body. Not again.

A group of rowdy men at the back whistle as she passes. She ignores them. She's used to it.

CUSTOMER

Hey sweetheart, smile more. Might get you a better tip.

LYRA

Tip me better, and I might pretend to care.

The front door swings open. A man walks in like he owns the night. CASPIAN DANTE. Late thirties. Cold eyes. Mafia boss. His tailored suit hugs a frame that speaks violence. He doesn't glance around. He already knows who he's here for.

LYRA (V.O.)

There he is. The man whose name drips from mouths like wine and warning.

CASPIAN

Whiskey. Neat. And a name to match the face.

LYRA

Lyra. Bartender. Not available.

CASPIAN (smirking)

Everything has a price. Even a name.

LYRA

Not mine.

He leans closer, not threatening-curious.

CASPIAN

You always burn this hot, or is it just me?

LYRA

Careful. You're flammable.

Beat. Their eyes lock. Something unseen passes between them-old as blood, sharp as desire.

CASPIAN

Have we met before?

Flash-past life memory. A cold cell. Her mother's scream. Her father's execution. Her being dragged into darkness. Her own voice-"I'll come back. I'll take everything they denied me."*

LYRA (V.O.)

You killed me once. You just don't know it yet.

[INT. LYRA'S APARTMENT – 2:14 AM]

She stares at the ceiling, half-naked, sweaty from the night heat and the weight of memory. Her fingers trace the curve of her breast, but it's not arousal-it's longing. For touch. For safety. For revenge.

TEXT MESSAGE POP-UP:

Unknown Number: You shouldn't look so tempting behind a bar. – C.D.

She stares at the screen. Her thighs clench involuntarily.

LYRA (V.O.)

I wanted peace. Instead, I found a war with pretty eyes and blood on his hands.