From Obsession’s Edge
Specters and Circuitry Anthology Episode 1
ACT I: THE EMPTY SPACE
CHAPTER 1
Scene 1
INT. CONNOR’S APARTMENT – MORNING (2028)
A near-future cityscape smolders through filthy windows, neon shop signs blinking across the street in harsh pinks and blues—like exhausted creatures fighting to stay alive. CONNOR HAYES (late 20s, ex-military) wakes with a sharp gasp on a sagging mattress. An ancient alarm clock coughs out a tinny beep, its red digits flickering between half-formed numbers.
Connor’s breath comes in short, ragged bursts; sweat beads at his temple. His dog tags clink, an auditory anchor to a previous life that once defined him—and now just haunts him. The studio walls peel, the floor coated in a sticky layer of dust and old coffee spills. A single, sputtering lightbulb overhead casts a sickly yellow glow, barely cutting through the gloom. Outside, perpetual drizzle taps against the glass, threatening to short-circuit the entire neighborhood.
He grimaces at his reflection in a small, rust-speckled mirror above a grimy sink. Dark stubble lines his jaw, and the exhaustion in his eyes betrays another restless night. Next to the mirror, a photo pinned to the peeling wallpaper catches his gaze: a younger Connor in uniform, standing tall beside his mother, whose smile radiates pride and love.
CONNOR (softly, pained)
You believed in me when nobody else did.
A half-hearted ping from his phone disrupts the silence. He checks it: a text from MOM:
MOM (text)
“Hey honey, any luck with work? I’m worried about you. Love you.”
Connor’s eyes flick to a stack of FINAL NOTICE bills on his chipped desk. A battered laptop rests precariously on top, half-closed. He types a terse reply:
CONNOR (texting)
“Still looking. I’m fine. Love you.”
He sets the phone down, a twisting guilt behind his tired gaze. Another beep from a scheduling app: a reminder of his meager security gig at a nondescript medical supply firm—the paycheck is barely enough to cover rent, let alone help with his mother’s medical expenses.
He throws on a threadbare jacket, pausing by the photo of his mother. He runs a calloused fingertip across her face, the brittle plastic film crinkling.
CONNOR (muttering to himself)
If Hell had weather, it’d be gray rain every damn day.
With that, he heads for the door, shoulders tense, dog tags swinging. A slight limp in his step—an old service injury—becomes more pronounced when the damp sets in. The drizzle outside is relentless, and a few overhead flickers of neon from the sign across the street paint him in a ghostly pink hue as he steps out.
His phone buzzes again, and he answers on instinct. His mother’s voice is soft, edges fraying.
MOM (voice trembling)
Connor... I—I just wanted to hear your voice before you head out.
He closes his eyes. Her trembling voice tries to sound hopeful, but Connor hears hidden terror within.
CONNOR
I’m okay, Mom. Don’t worry. I’ll call you tonight.
He ends the call, guilt slicing deeper.
Scene 2
EXT. BUS STOP – LATER
Connor waits under a flickering streetlamp. Rain spatters the pavement, warping neon reflections into oily rainbow puddles. A small group of silent, exhausted commuters gather, their faces bathed in the glow of personal devices. One older man in a rumpled coat stands tapping at thin air, presumably navigating an AR overlay on his contact lenses.
On the bus, he sees couples replaced by VR illusions, sharing synthetic embraces. The normalcy of it all chills him.
Above, a digital billboard hums artificially, the voice too bright for this dreary street:
AI THERAPISTS –
“Soothe Your Mind the Modern Way!”
Connor feels the ache in his shoulder intensify—an old military injury that flares whenever the damp cold seeps in. He gives it a quick, unconscious rub as a battered bus screeches to a halt with a gush of exhaust fumes.
Inside the bus, a few seats are taken by riders wearing cheap VR headsets, lost in curated fantasies. A glitchy overhead screen flickers, trying to display real-time advertisements but stuttering with static. As soon as Connor sits, a holographic ad triggers by the front panel:
BUS AD (AI VOICE)
“Tired of heartbreak? Upgrade to digital love—no risk, all reward!”
He exhales wearily, ignoring the ad’s neon swirl. The bus lurches forward, groaning as it pulls away from the curb. Connor glances around, noticing how the other passengers barely acknowledge anything—reality has become background noise to them. The overhead lights flicker, revealing the bus’s worn seats, each stained by time and countless spills.
CONNOR (inner monologue)
This city’s falling apart, and all anyone cares about is the next big tech fix.
Outside, the drizzle intensifies, creating a thudding drone on the bus roof. He closes his eyes for a moment, half-drifting. In that half-sleep, he flinches at a brief memory: the deafening sound of helicopter blades from a past deployment, the smell of gun oil. He snaps his eyes open, forcing himself back into the present.
Scene 3
INT. MEDICAL SUPPLY COMPANY – SECURITY BOOTH – MORNING
A cramped booth lined with bulletproof glass. The fluorescent lights above cast a pale, flickering glow. The space feels more like a cage than a guard post. RANDALL (mid-50s, balding, with a clammy forehead) flips through a tattered conspiracy magazine. The edges are dog-eared, riddled with sensational headlines about secret experiments, AI revolutions, and corporate malfeasance.
RANDALL (without looking up)
You’re late.
CONNOR
Buses don’t sync with my schedule.
Randall grunts, still engrossed in some article. Connor signs in, sliding into the tight space beside a cluttered monitor panel. The screens show four camera feeds: deserted corridors, a near-empty parking lot, a loading bay with flickering overhead lights, and a locked basement door marked “RESTRICTED.”
A news ticker crawls across one monitor:
TICKER
“AromaTech Solutions denies lawsuit allegations over Beta Pheromone Cologne.”
Connor rubs his temple, the overhead buzz of the fluorescents digging at his nerves.
CONNOR (inner monologue)
I used to coordinate real missions overseas. Now I babysit vacant hallways and dusty corners.
Randall suddenly slams his magazine shut, making Connor jump. The older man’s voice drops to a near-whisper, glancing at the camera feeds.
RANDALL
Lunch run. I’d keep my nose clean if I were you. This place…
(he drums his fingers)
…it’s got skeletons if you look hard enough.
Connor quirks a brow, a spark of curiosity flickering. But Randall offers no explanation, just grabs his coat and waddles out. Left alone, Connor eyes the monitors again. The corridor feed shows a glitch—a shadow flits across the frame before vanishing.
CONNOR (under breath)
Must be a glitch…
Yet his heart thuds in his chest. His mind can’t help conjuring images of secret labs, dimly lit test rooms—fueled in part by leftover soldierly instincts telling him that when you’re told “don’t look around,” there’s something worth seeing.
Randall mentions his success with AI therapy, claiming it eased his paranoia overnight. Connor scoffs at the idea, but part of him wonders if everything can be fixed artificially.
Scene 4
EXT. MEDICAL SUPPLY COMPANY – COURTYARD – NOON
The “courtyard” is really just a concrete enclosure open to a perpetually gray sky. Rainwater collects into muddy puddles. Connor steps outside for his break, a vending-machine sandwich in hand, the bread already soggy from the moisture in the air.
His phone buzzes. A text from SARAH WALKER:
SARAH (text)
“Need to talk. Important.”
Connor’s stomach tightens. Sarah was his best friend—and almost more—before he enlisted. They drifted after he returned, weighed down by experiences he couldn’t share and a civilian world he struggled to re-enter.
CONNOR
Sure, call anytime.
He types back quickly, ignoring the stale bite of the sandwich. The rain forms shimmering patterns on an oil-slick puddle by his feet, the neon glare overhead turning it into a toxic rainbow.
CONNOR (quietly)
Please let this be good news…
Shouldering his worn backpack, he stands there a moment, letting the drizzle soak his collar. The gloom around him feels heavier than the sky: medical bills, a gnawing sense of failure, now Sarah wanting to “talk.”
He tosses the half-eaten sandwich into a trash bin, feeling the day’s weight settling in.
His landlord leaves another note: “Pay in three days or face eviction, soldier.”
CHAPTER 2
Scene 1
INT. CONNOR’S APARTMENT – LATE AFTERNOON
A single flickering bulb illuminates Connor’s cramped studio. He’s hunched over his old laptop, the screen clogged with shady job ads: “HIGH PAY FOR MYSTERY TASKS,” “NO-QUESTIONS-ASKED GIGS,” “RISK-BASED SECURITY WORK.” His phone rattles on the tabletop. SARAH WALKER flashes on the caller ID.
CONNOR (answering, tense)
Sarah?
A familiar warmth tugs at his chest upon hearing her voice, though it’s layered with a concern that sets him on edge.
SARAH (O.S.)
Connor…hey. Been a while. How’re you holding up?
He spots the rusted bucket in the corner, catching drips from the leaky ceiling. Each plink echoes in the hush, reminding him of the fragile life he’s pieced together.
CONNOR
Alive, if that counts. You said you had something urgent?
There’s a hesitation. Then she exhales, voice trembling slightly.
SARAH (O.S.)
I’m…engaged. David proposed last week.
Time seems to slow. He grips the desk so hard his knuckles ache. Memories of how close they once were swirl in his mind: late-night talks, the stolen almost-kiss before his deployment, the guilt he felt leaving her behind.
CONNOR
Wow…that’s… Congratulations. That’s huge.
He tries to keep his tone even, but a hollow feeling gnaws at his chest.
SARAH (O.S.)
I wanted you to hear it from me first, before social media or mutual friends. We’re having an engagement party next month. I’d love you to come.
He forces a thin laugh, though no one’s around to see the pain etched on his face.
CONNOR
I’d…like that. You…happy?
A pause. She clears her throat.
SARAH (O.S., unsure)
Mostly. David’s great in some ways, but…he’s intense about money and these big investments. That can be hard.
Connor clenches his jaw, bitterness creeping onto his tongue.
CONNOR
Yeah. Normal enough, I guess. Listen, I am happy for you. Truly.
A suffocating silence. He rubs the dog tags dangling at his neck—a reflex whenever he’s anxious.
SARAH (O.S.)
How’s your mom? And…work?
He glances at the overdue medical bills stacked near his laptop. A rancid wave of shame washes over him.
CONNOR
She’s…not great. Needs a specialist I can’t afford. I’m at a security job, scraping by.
SARAH (softly)
I’m so sorry, Connor. If there’s anything I can do…
They exchange subdued goodbyes. The phone clicks off, leaving the apartment in oppressive quiet—only the drip, drip of water into the bucket. He closes his eyes, remembering how hopeful he once was, fresh out of the military, believing he’d find a decent job and salvage what was left of his life. Now? He’s sinking fast.
She re-reads a faded note from Connor, recalling a late-night promise never fulfilled.
Scene 2
INT. CONNOR’S APARTMENT – LATER
Connor slumps at his desk, logs into his bank account. The humiliatingly low balance stares back, mocking him. He opens a new tab to see a medical invoice for his mother: a heart procedure and consultations he has no way of covering.
He touches the dog tags again, a habit that’s begun to border on compulsive. He picks up a photo of him and his mother from years ago—her eyes bright with pride, his uniform crisp and new.
CONNOR (quietly)
I promised I’d take care of you, Mom. I’m trying.
He pins the photo beside a small magnet on the wall, turning away like it might lessen the guilt. The tension in his shoulders refuses to subside, though. A distant rumble of thunder seeps through the windows, as if the city itself is echoing his anxiety.
CHAPTER 3: Late-Night Temptations
Scene 1
INT. CONNOR’S APARTMENT – NIGHT
Neon from the street transforms the walls into swatches of lurid pinks and sickly greens. Connor, in a battered chair, scrolls through online job postings. Most of them are borderline scams or exploitative gigs that reek of desperation.
Suddenly, a pop-up erupts on his screen, refusing to close:
POP-UP
“Sick of rejections? AI pheromones can fix your love life—Beta testers needed NOW!”
Connor clicks the “X” repeatedly. No luck. The ad hijacks his screen. A slick salesman figure named PACO appears, all grin and impeccable suit, holding a strangely glowing cologne bottle.
PACO (voiceover)
“Feeling invisible? Let our AI-driven pheromone cologne give you the aura you deserve.”
Clips flash: lavish parties, entranced admirers gazing at men who wear the product, testimonial text zipping by:
TESTIMONIALS
“I’ve never had such confidence!”
“People treat me like royalty now!”
Connor’s pulse quickens. He thinks of Sarah’s engagement, the relentless medical bills, the emptiness of each passing day.
CONNOR
It’s a scam. Gotta be.
Yet the “Buy Now” button blinks hypnotically. Something inside him—a blend of loneliness, desperation, and shame—makes him hover his cursor over it. He clicks.
He mechanically types in his credit card details. The site’s garish animations swirl, culminating in a confirmation window:
COMPUTER VOICE
“Thank you, Connor Hayes. Your Beta Pheromone Cologne is on its way!”
With a frustrated growl, he slams the laptop shut. The neon outside flickers ominously, as if mocking him. His heart thrashes in his chest; regret already seeps in. He tries to sleep, but only half-dreams of half-lit corridors, the hum of a city that refuses to let him find peace.
He stumbles on a forum post: “Beware Beta Cologne—my best friend just vanished.”
Scene 2: The Package Arrives
INT. CONNOR’S APARTMENT – MORNING (A FEW DAYS LATER)
A sudden clang in the building’s corridor signals mail delivery. Connor retrieves a small AromaTech box from the chute. His stomach churns, recalling how close he was to maxing his credit card.
Inside:
A sleek, obsidian cologne bottle that seems to devour light.
A pamphlet reading: “Welcome to the Future!”
A leaflet titled: “Beta Program Instructions” in stark lettering.
He skims references to “AI-Optimized Pheromone Synergy,” “Heightened Emotional Responses,” and “Caution: Unethical Use.” The disclaimers send a chill through him.
CONNOR
So this…is my plan? Great.
He uncaps the bottle, inhaling a warm, musky scent laced with an odd electric crackle. A subtle rush ignites his nerves, like the first surge of adrenaline before a military operation.
CONNOR (hesitant)
Maybe…just one test.
He spritzes once on his wrist. Heat blooms under his skin. The cologne’s fragrance curls around him, strangely intimate. Another beep from his phone—work shift reminder—shocks him back to the present. Stuffing the bottle into his jacket, he rushes out, uncertain and a little excited.
CHAPTER 4
Scene 1
INT. LOCAL GROCERY STORE – AFTERNOON
Harsh fluorescent lights buzz overhead, giving everything a bland, washed-out look. Connor, wearing a careful dab of the cologne, scans the produce section for cheap deals on wilted vegetables and bruised fruit.
A WOMAN in her late 20s sidles up, face brightening uncharacteristically when she looks at him.
WOMAN
Sorry to bother you… but which apples are best for pies?
Connor stiffens; he’s not used to strangers initiating friendly chats. He clears his throat.
CONNOR
Uh…Granny Smith if you like tart. Fuji’s if you want sweeter.
She smiles, lingering longer than expected, eyes flicking down his body like she’s sizing him up.
WOMAN
Thanks. You come here often? I don’t recall seeing you before…
An uneasy prickle crawls over his skin. He stammers a quick goodbye, moving to the checkout. There, the cashier meets him with an uncommonly cheery smile, asking if he needs help bagging, if he wants to try new brands of chocolate—little courtesies he never experienced before.
Leaving the store, a thrill courses through him. Yet it’s tinged with foreboding.
CONNOR (quietly)
This stuff might actually work…
He can’t decide if it’s a blessing or a trick of his own mind.
Scene 2
INT. CONNOR’S APARTMENT – NIGHT
Connor sets down his bargain groceries—cheap soup, wilted greens—onto the cluttered countertop. His phone chimes with a new icon: AromaSync. Confused, he swipes to open it. He never installed another app.
The interface is sleek, swirling with vibrant lines. PACO reappears in a tutorial video, that salesman grin plastered on:
PACO (in-app)
“Hello, Beta Tester! Your real-time environment data—microphone, camera, location—helps us refine your formula, so you can be irresistible.”
Connor’s brow furrows as permission prompts flood his screen: camera access, location tracking, microphone use. A pang of paranoia surfaces—this is more invasive than he thought. But the promise of “better synergy” gnaws at him. He taps ALLOW.
AROMASYNC
“Calibration at 30%. Keep Logging!”
He notices disclaimers about “psychological consequences” and “not liable for misuse.” A tense bubble forms in his gut. He doesn’t read further, something in him too desperate for an advantage to turn back now.
Scene 3
Later, Connor slumps on his futon. The cologne bottle sits like a forbidden totem on the small table. Another text from Sarah pings:
SARAH (text)
“We need to finalize the engagement party details. Call me?”
He stares at the phone. Just weeks ago, he would have jumped at an excuse to talk to her. Now? Guilt seeps in; he’s so far behind, a moral compromise in the making. He’s using something that can alter how people perceive him.
CONNOR (to himself)
This is messed up. But if it helps me get out of this hole…
He glances at the bottle. In the neon glow seeping through the window, it appears to pulse, as if alive. The city outside hums with mechanical noise, and somewhere far off, a siren wails.
CONNOR
How far am I willing to go?
He can’t shake the voice in his head that says this is a line he shouldn’t cross. But the weight of debt, the mother he can’t help, and the emptiness in his bed each night weighs heavier.
CHAPTER 5
Scene 1
EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD CAFÉ – LATE MORNING
Connor decides to test the cologne more intentionally. He spritzes it on his neck and wrists, that electric tingle sparking again. Stepping into a cozy café, he’s greeted by warm lighting and scattered local art. The aroma of coffee weaves through the air, far more inviting than his musty apartment.
Scanning for seats, he spots a small table near VANESSA PARKER (late 20s). She’s in an oversized sweater stained with paint flecks, flipping through an art magazine. A butterfly tattoo peeks from her wrist, the wings half-covered by a smudge of charcoal.
CONNOR
Mind if I sit?
She looks up, curiosity in her eyes. Her posture is relaxed but watchful.
VANESSA
Go ahead. Place is packed, no sense in standing.
He sits, heartbeat rattling his ribcage. His phone vibrates discreetly—AromaSync prompting him to log the location or environment. He ignores it.
CONNOR
You, uh, into art?
VANESSA
Freelance designer. Just moved here. Still figuring out which end is up in this neon jungle.
There’s a subtle lean on her part, as though drawn to him. He wonders if it’s the cologne or genuine interest. Possibly both.
CONNOR
The city can be a mess. But sometimes, if you dig, you find good stuff.
She smiles, softly. They chat, discovering an easy rapport. Connor is used to feeling invisible, but Vanessa seems genuinely intrigued—asking about his day, his background (which he only partially shares).
VANESSA (a bit nervous)
Sorry if this is weird, but…I’m new and you seem chill. Could I grab your number? Maybe we could, I don’t know, compare city survival notes?
Connor’s pulse spikes. He’s never had strangers be this forward. Is it just the cologne? Or something real?
CONNOR
Sure…why not?
They exchange info. The second she steps out, the café feels dimmer, emptier. AromaSync pings: “Congratulations on a successful interaction!”
CONNOR (softly)
Is it me…or the cologne?
He can’t deny the thrill of possibility flickering for the first time in ages.
Scene 2
INT. CONNOR’S APARTMENT – EVENING
Connor enters his meager studio, logs his café encounter into AromaSync. A progress bar slides up.
AROMASYNC
“Your synergy score is climbing!”
He tosses his phone onto the desk, exhaling. Glancing at the pinned photo of his mother, then to the battered laptop displaying endless job rejections, he feels a spark of hope. Maybe life is changing.
Yet, a creeping doubt persists: What if it’s all just artificial?
Scene 3: Conflicting Emotions
He paces the cramped apartment, the cologne bottle in hand, reading the fine print again. A line stands out: “For advanced synergy, provide sweat sample of desired partner.” A chill grips him.
CONNOR
So that’s how far they want me to go?
Before he can delve deeper, his phone rings—Sarah again.
CONNOR
Hey, everything okay?
SARAH (O.S.)
Finalizing the party list. Are you sure you’re up for it?
He rubs his eyes, tension slithering up his spine.
CONNOR
I’ll manage. Just…a lot going on. Money, Mom’s health… I’m not exactly the life of a party.
Sarah’s voice softens.
SARAH (O.S.)
You know I care about you, Connor. Don’t shut me out just because I’m…engaged.
The line crackles in the silence. He pictures her face, the worry lines in her brow.
CONNOR
Right. Don’t worry. I’ll be there.
They hang up. He stares at the cologne, its dark surface reflecting neon from the windows. The city’s pink glow tints it like a siren light.
CONNOR (voice low)
What am I getting myself into?
CHAPTER 6
Scene 1
EXT. SHARED GARAGE – LATE AFTERNOON
A row of crumbling garage units lines a potholed alley. Connor unlocks one, revealing a rusty sedan once belonging to his late father. A single overhead bulb flickers, throwing mismatched shadows on the concrete.
Tools are scattered, mostly coated in dust or rust. A corkboard bears unpaid repair bills—each stamped “Overdue.” Connor lifts the hood, sees the corroded engine.
CONNOR (softly)
Sorry, Dad…still can’t fix you.
He slides into the driver’s seat out of habit, tries the ignition: a hollow click is all he gets. A stale smell of motor oil and decaying leather envelops him, stirring a memory: a road trip with his father before basic training, their last normal moment together.
CONNOR (inner monologue)
If I can’t fix this car, how can I fix my life?
He slams the door, the echo startling a stray cat outside. A push notification from AromaTech pings. He silences it, locking the garage on his way out, shoulders sagging as if weighted by more than just the city’s gloom.
Scene 2
INT. VANESSA’S APARTMENT – AFTERNOON
Vanessa’s small, art-filled flat in a transitioning neighborhood. Vibrant, hand-drawn murals of futuristic cityscapes clash with the cracked paint on the walls. She’s barefoot, wearing paint-splattered leggings and an oversized T-shirt. Connor arrives with a takeout bag, the city’s drizzle clinging to his jacket.
VANESSA (smiling)
You braved the monsoon for me. Thanks. Just watch out for the puddle in the kitchen—my faucet’s still leaking.
She leads him to a small table crowded with sketches, color swatches, and half-finished concept art. He sets the takeout down: sandwiches, fries, some bottled tea.
CONNOR
Figured real food might keep you going. You look beat.
She sighs, rolling her neck.
VANESSA
Freelance life. Clients want miracles overnight. If I tell them I’m not an AI, they threaten to hire one. Feels like I’m fighting a losing battle.
Connor studies her. She has dark circles under her eyes, but a resilience in her posture that draws him in.
CONNOR
AI can mimic style, not soul. Trust me, your work has a heartbeat. That’s gotta be worth something.
She blushes faintly, rummaging through the takeout. Around them, the hum of a cheap space heater mingles with the sound of rain tapping on the window.
VANESSA (softly)
Thanks for believing in me. People rarely say it so plainly.
Later, she studies overdue invoices, eyes damp with worry she struggles to hide.
They eat, exchanging snippets of personal history. Connor mentions his mother’s health, leaving out the darkest financial specifics. Vanessa confesses she’s behind on rent, that one big break could change everything.
VANESSA
Sometimes it feels like we’re living in a machine that chews people up.
(looking him in the eyes)
At least there are…good ones out there.
For a moment, they lock gazes. A subtle tension crackles—Connor wonders if the cologne is amplifying this or if it’s real. He forces the thought aside, focusing on the genuine warmth in her smile.
Scene 3
INT. SARAH’S APARTMENT – THE NEXT DAY
Sarah’s place is crowded with half-open boxes of engagement party decorations. Her fiancé, DAVID (early 30s, meticulously dressed, phone always in hand), scrolls through an AI investment dashboard.
Sarah ushers Connor in, offering a quick hug.
SARAH
David, this is Connor—my oldest friend.
David looks up, eyes calculating. He sets down his phone to give Connor a firm handshake, albeit a brief one.
David discreetly checks a photo of his ill cousin, fueling his obsessive finances.
DAVID
Sarah’s mentioned you. Thanks for dropping by.
Connor nods, noticing the strain between them. David returns to his phone. Sarah rolls her eyes.
SARAH
We’re trying to finalize engagement details. I want something small, personal. David wants bigger, thinks it’ll impress his potential investors.
David steps forward, posture rigid:
DAVID
I’m on the verge of a major AI startup payoff. If it hits, we can afford something more…memorable than a quick lounge event.
Sarah’s jaw tightens. Her frustration is palpable.
SARAH
We already have bills, David. Piling on more risk isn’t going to help us.
Her fiancé’s phone buzzes, and he steps away to take the call. Connor follows Sarah to the living room, boxes of decorations scattered around.
SARAH (quietly)
We’re in counseling. I do love him, but he’s fixated on big wins, huge leaps. It’s draining.
Connor offers a small shrug, wrestling with a surge of conflicting emotions—jealousy, protectiveness, concern.
CONNOR
If anyone can handle him, it’s you. You always kept me grounded back then.
Nostalgia flickers in her eyes.
SARAH
I remember. That’s why I still want you in my life…despite everything.
David returns, tension coiling in the air again. Connor excuses himself, a dull ache settling in his gut as he leaves. The quiet friction in the apartment feels like a storm about to break.
CHAPTER 7
Scene 1
INT. CONNOR’S APARTMENT – EARLY MORNING
Connor stirs awake to relentless pings from the AromaSync app. He fumbles for his phone:
AROMASYNC
“Ready to take your relationship further? Submit a sweat sample of your desired partner for advanced synergy!”
He scrolls the disclaimers, reading lines like: “Not responsible for psychological harm,” “Unauthorized use is strictly prohibited,” and “Results may include heightened fixation.”
A wave of nausea hits. He thinks of Vanessa, the blooming connection they share. Would it even be real if he used the advanced formula? Then he imagines losing her, being left behind again, or her discovering how broke and desperate he truly is. The memory of Sarah’s engagement announcement stabs at him like a reminder of how fast life can move on without you.
CONNOR (low)
This is so wrong…
Yet he lifts the small kit provided in the cologne box: a tiny vial, a swab, and a prepaid envelope. His heart pounds. The city’s morning light flickers behind threadbare curtains, as though the world can sense he’s at a moral crossroad.
Scene 2
INT. VANESSA’S APARTMENT – EVENING
Connor arrives with takeout yet again. The constant drizzle outside makes his jacket damp. He finds Vanessa pacing, phone clutched tightly.
VANESSA (on phone, exasperated)
I already said I can’t do a full redesign by Monday! I’m human, not some AI factory.
She ends the call, tossing her phone onto a sofa riddled with paint-stained rags. Frustration radiates from her.
CONNOR
Another client from hell?
She nods, eyes tired.
VANESSA
They act like art is just pressing a button. “Do it cheaper, faster, or we’ll replace you.” I’m so sick of it.
He steps closer, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. She closes her eyes, leaning into the contact, just for a moment.
CONNOR
They’d be fools to replace you. AI can replicate style, but it’ll never replicate you.
She gives him a half-smile. Then her gaze shifts to a hoodie slung over a chair, sweat stains at the armpits—a testimony to her stress. Connor’s mind flashes to the sample kit. His stomach knots with shame and temptation in equal measure.
CONNOR (inner turmoil)
Don’t do it… This is real, don’t corrupt it.
He swallows hard, stepping away.
CONNOR (softly)
Let’s eat. We’ll figure it out. Somehow.
They share a quiet meal at her cluttered table. She reveals more of her anxieties—late bills, fear of losing the spark in her art. He nods, empathizing. They’re both battered by a city that values quick fixes, big investments, and AI illusions of perfection.
Scene 3
INT. CONNOR’S APARTMENT – LATE NIGHT
Connor checks his phone before bed—three missed calls from Sarah. He imagines her at home, wrestling with doubts about David’s high-stakes ventures. He wonders if David’s AI startup has any tie to AromaTech, or if it’s just the same tech-driven madness plaguing everyone.
He opens a draft text:
CONNOR (draft text)
“Maybe we both made a mistake.”
He stares at it, recalling the near-kiss they once shared, the bond formed before war changed him. The flicker of a neon sign outside splashes him in an unsettling pink hue.
Atop his scarred table lie three items in a disquieting tableau:
His dog tags.
The cologne bottle.
The sample kit, gateway to crossing a moral Rubicon.
Rain patters the window, each drop echoing like a warning. Connor deletes the text, setting the phone aside.
CONNOR (anguished whisper)
What the hell am I doing?
The question lingers in the air, unanswered, as thunder rumbles in the distance. He shuts his eyes, uncertain if tomorrow brings salvation or a deeper descent.
END OF ACT I
ACT II
CHAPTER 8: THE MORAL CHASM
Scene 1
INT. VANESSA’S APARTMENT – EVENING
A single, threadbare lamp casts a sputtering glow across the cramped living room. Outside the window, neon signs flicker in the stormy night, reflecting in the widening puddles along the city streets. The unrelenting rain patters against the window glass, each drop distorting the world into an abstract swirl of color. Within these walls, a creeping sense of disquiet now taints the once-cozy sanctuary.
Steam billows from the half-open bathroom door, hinting at the hiss of a hot shower. Vanessa’s gray hoodie—still damp from her earlier workout—lies on the couch, carrying the faint odor of sweat and laundry detergent. The intimate mixture of smells is a testament to her daily life, the kind of detail Connor used to find comforting, even endearing.
Now, Connor stands by the couch, shoulders tense. In his trembling left hand, a tiny glass vial gleams ominously under the weak lamplight. His heart thuds like a war drum, a beat that resonates in his ears. He can’t erase the memory of the instructions he received from AromaTech’s hush-hush hotline:
“For advanced synergy, collect your partner’s sweat…”
The words replay incessantly in his mind, swinging between an almost electrifying promise and the deep nausea of moral betrayal.
CONNOR (whisper, trembling):
Don’t do this… She already likes you. She trusts you…
He closes his eyes for a second, haunted by an image of Sarah’s engagement ring—how quickly that illusion of happiness with her had crumbled. Abandonment. He can still feel the echo of that heartbreak, an open wound in his chest. The terror of losing Vanessa, repeating that cycle of loss, steels his resolve.
With a swift but shaky inhale, Connor kneels over Vanessa’s hoodie. The collar, still damp with sweat, marks the intangible boundary between right and wrong he’s about to cross. Pressing the swab into the fabric feels like an obscene violation of her privacy—of her humanity. He rubs gently, collecting the trace moisture. His conscience screams at him, but the hiss of the shower almost seems to drown out the moral outcry.
CONNOR (inner monologue):
I just crossed a line I can’t uncross.
Then, as though the universe decreed immediate judgment, the bathroom door squeaks. A humid gust of steam drifts into the living room. Vanessa appears wearing only a white towel, droplets of water trailing down her arms and legs. She halts at the sight of Connor’s rigid stance.
VANESSA (tilting her head):
Connor? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.
Connor’s pulse thrashes wildly. He fumbles to conceal the vial, shoving it deep into his jacket pocket. His mouth forms a strained grin, masking panic.
CONNOR (forcing calm):
Y-yeah… I just… didn’t hear you come out.
Vanessa narrows her eyes, clearly sensing the tension, but she shrugs it off. Condensation clings to her bare shoulders, and a slight shiver courses through her as the cooler air meets her damp skin.
VANESSA (softly):
I’m freezing after that shower. Come here.
She beckons him with open arms, inviting warmth and comfort that only intensifies the knot of guilt in his gut. He steps into her embrace, the damp towel pressing into his chest. He can feel her heartbeat, smell the clean scent of her shampoo mingling with the faint musk of her lingering body heat. Even as a wave of tenderness washes over him, his conscience rages. The secret swab, sealed away in that vial, pulses like a condemned man’s heartbeat in his pocket.
Scene 2
EXT. POST OFFICE DROP BOX – EARLY MORNING
A gray drizzle veils the desolate street. City lights blink dully through the wet haze, mirrored by puddles shimmering on the cracked pavement. The sky churns with an unbroken sheet of leaden clouds, an apt mirror for Connor’s inner turmoil. He stands near a battered blue drop box, streaked with graffiti half-faded by time and weather.
Cradled in his hands is a small AromaTech shipping envelope, nondescript and sealed. Inside lies the vial—Vanessa’s sweat sample. The label on the form reads:
“Beta Pheromone Enhancement – Personalization Kit.”
Connor glances around nervously, then back at the envelope. His mind swirls with reasons to abort this plan, to tear open the package and shred its contents. The memory of heartbreak, however, gnaws relentlessly.
CONNOR (softly):
I’m sorry, Vanessa. I just… I can’t lose you. Not like before.
A surge of desperation eclipses doubt. He slides the envelope into the drop box. The hollow metallic clang reverberates like a judge’s gavel, sentencing him to a course of action with no easy exit.
He stands in the drizzle for a moment longer, rain sliding off his jacket. It feels as though the world is pressing down on him. Then he turns, shoulders hunched, leaving the mailbox behind, as though it were an altar for his unholy offering.
INT. CONNOR’S APARTMENT – DAYS LATER
Connor dozes fitfully on his worn-out couch. Empty takeout boxes clutter the coffee table, testament to his eroding routine. The sharp rap on the door jolts him from a half-dream. Outside in the corridor, the overhead fluorescent light flickers, casting intermittent shadows.
By the time he opens the door, a courier has already vanished around the corner, leaving a sleek black box on the floor. Silver lettering gleams on its surface:
“Version 2.0 – Personalized Formula.”
He snatches the box inside, tearing the packing material until he finds the small bottle of advanced cologne. A note tucked inside warns in bold lettering:
“Use sparingly. Potential for heightened attachment, dependency, or emotional volatility.”
Connor reads the disclaimer multiple times, anxiety crawling across his chest. The words almost vibrate with menace:
“Heightened attachment… emotional volatility…”
He thinks of Vanessa’s radiant, open smile, the kindness she shows so effortlessly. Would he corrupt that innocence into something obsessive, even dangerous?
CONNOR (softly):
Just once. Let’s see if it really works.
Uncapping the bottle, he dabs a bead onto his wrists. The scent is faintly acrid, a synthetic musk with an underlying bite of chemicals. Immediately, a surge of warmth trickles along his arms, prickling his skin with goosebumps. His heartbeat kicks up, a blend of dread and excited anticipation.
CONNOR (internal):
What if this cologne really does change everything?
He closes his eyes briefly, guilt pounding like a migraine at his temples. Then he steels himself. There’s no turning back from this twisted path.
CHAPTER 9
Scene 1
INT. NEON BAR – NIGHT
A pulsing bassline infuses the neon-lit darkness, where walls bristle with colored tubes that flash in sync with the music. Holographic projectors swirl overhead, throwing fractal designs onto dancing patrons. The air is thick with overlapping conversations, electronic beats, and a haze of smoke from the bar’s novelty vapor machines. Even the bartenders appear digitized—animated holograms floating near real humans who operate mixology robots.
Connor steps inside, keenly aware of the new cologne radiating around him like an invisible aura. The bar’s usual cocktail of stale beer and sweaty bodies merges with the faint chemical hum on his skin. A few heads turn in his direction—mostly women, eyes lingering with unexplained curiosity. The attention prickles across his neck.
He weaves through a throng of dancers painted in fluorescent stripes, arms swaying under ultraviolet lights. Finally, he spots Vanessa on a sleek stool beneath a flickering sign:
DRINK ME
the neon letters stylized in an Alice-in-Wonderland motif.
She notices him instantly, her gaze locking onto him with an intensity that ignites his pulse. She sets her glowing cocktail down so suddenly that the liquid sloshes, nearly spilling over the rim.
VANESSA (near breathless smile):
Hey! You look… different tonight. I can practically feel you from here.
Connor’s throat constricts. The effect is so immediate, it’s almost terrifying. He moves closer, noticing other women glancing his way, their looks more than casual. Usually, he’d dismiss it as coincidence, but tonight he senses the cologne’s tangible pull.
Vanessa stands, seizing his hand with a possessive fervor. She leads him through the gyrating crowd to a small booth tucked away from the main crush. The music reverberates through the plush seats, an almost primal pulse echoing the tension coiling inside them.
VANESSA (stroking his hand):
Every woman in here is checking you out. But you’re mine, right?
She’s always been confident, but this question carries a sharper edge, almost a challenge. Connor’s chest tightens with unease. He can see a glimmer in her eyes that treads a line between adoration and obsession.
CONNOR (softly):
Of course. I’m with you.
Her smile brightens, but it’s tinged with a brittle hunger. She seems more wound-up than usual, as though adrenaline courses through her veins. In the cycling neon lights, her grin feels predatory.
VANESSA:
Good. Because if you left… I don’t know what I’d do.
Goosebumps prickle on Connor’s arms. The disclaimers about “emotional volatility” echo ominously in his mind. Yet beneath the worry, a guilty thrill sparks—she’s riveted by him, desperate, and he’s the center of her world. It’s both exhilarating and horrifying.
Scene 2: A Night of Frenzy
INT. VANESSA’S APARTMENT – LATER
They arrive at Vanessa’s apartment in a rain-soaked rush, the taxi ride a blur of neon-streaked windows and thrumming city streets. Inside, the weak overhead light mingles with the headlights of passing cars, slicing across the walls in ghostly patterns. The cologne still clings to Connor’s skin, an electric charge that sets the atmosphere on edge.
They barely make it through the door before Vanessa yanks Connor’s jacket off, nails scraping against his shoulders. Her laughter merges with ragged moans as she pulls him into the bedroom. There’s a frenetic energy to her touch—a desperation that borders on frantic need.
VANESSA (breathy, urgent):
I need you… like I need oxygen. Don’t—stop…
Her words tumble into disjointed gasps. They collapse onto the bed, tangling in sheets and each other. It’s a surge of desire fused with an undercurrent of something darker—obsession, fueled by chemicals neither of them fully understand.
Time warps into a haze of sweat, muffled cries, and flashes of neon from the street. When it’s over, they lie entwined, the room’s temperature still scorching despite the relentless rain outside. Raindrops race down the windowpanes, painting fluid shadows on the walls.
Vanessa shivers, gripping Connor’s arm with trembling intensity, as if anchoring herself to him. Her pupils seem dilated, voice trembling with a fervor that worries him.
VANESSA (voice shaking):
I can’t stand being apart from you. It’s like you’re under my skin, in my blood. If you left…
She trails off, eyes shining with both devotion and terror. Connor’s heart clenches. He can’t deny that they’ve fallen into a place that feels both dangerously intoxicating and horribly wrong.
CONNOR (quietly):
I’m not going anywhere, I promise.
But the weight of his lie—the knowledge that her heightened affection might not be authentic—suffocates him. He remembers the disclaimers: “dependency,” “attachment.” In a single choice, he’s broken the boundary of her free will.
He gently brushes the hair from her face, trying to swallow the guilt that surfaces every time he breathes in the lingering cologne on his own skin.
Vanessa’s eyes shone with a near-feral intensity as Connor let the new cologne pulse through the room. She caught her breath, a visible quake rippling through her frame. In one swift motion, she pulled him toward the bed, pressing fevered kisses against his neck. Neon spilled across the sheets like electric graffiti, painting her every desperate touch. Connor’s guilt flared, overshadowed by the heady rush of her hands fisting his shirt, her whispered pleas filling the space between them. The formula worked too well; he tasted the victory—and the lie—on her lips.
CHAPTER 10: CRACKS IN THE FACADE
Scene 1
INT. CONNOR’S APARTMENT – EARLY MORNING
Connor jerks awake on his couch, drenched in cold sweat. His phone’s shrill buzzing slices through the haze of his nightmares. He fumbles for it, blinking blearily at the screen: fifteen missed calls from Vanessa, timestamps spanning the entire night. Text messages crowd the notification bar:
“Where are you?”
“Why won’t you pick up?”
“I’m freaking out, please call me back!”
A sense of dread pierces him. His eyes flick to the clock: 5:07 AM. He quickly hits the call button. After a few rings, the line picks up, revealing Vanessa’s ragged breathing.
VANESSA (O.S., frantic relief):
Oh thank God. I had this awful nightmare about you leaving me. I couldn’t breathe. I’m sorry—I know it’s so early, but I just couldn’t handle not hearing from you…
Her voice cracks with desperation that goes beyond normal relationship jitters. She sounds haunted, consumed by fear.
CONNOR (softly, anxious):
Vanessa… it’s okay. I’m here. You’re safe, okay?
Tears choke her voice. The call ends with her whispering a shaky declaration of love. Connor sets the phone aside, a hollow ache carving into his chest. She’s spiraling, and he knows precisely why.
He glances at his old dog tags, resting on the cluttered coffee table. Engraved with his name and blood type, they represent a time when he swore an oath to protect the vulnerable. Now, he’s the perpetrator of a subtle harm. The realization lances him with shame.
CONNOR (voice trembling):
This is spiraling out of control…
His reflection in the dark TV screen shows a man haggard with guilt and exhaustion—haunted by the consequences of his desperation. There’s no more denying what he’s done: he’s robbed Vanessa of her autonomy, and it’s tearing both of them apart.
Scene 2
INT. SARAH’S APARTMENT – LATE AFTERNOON
Distant thunder broods in the sky outside. The air is heavy, primed for another downpour. Sarah’s place is littered with half-packed boxes labeled “ENGAGEMENT,” each still unopened. She stands by the window, phone in hand. Concern etches lines into her forehead as she flips through articles about Beta Pheromone Cologne on a news aggregator.
The door buzzer sounds. She opens it to reveal Connor, soaked by the drizzle, eyes rimmed red from sleepless nights. She gestures for him to enter, shuffling aside a box of half-finished wedding decorations.
SARAH (urgently):
I’ve been researching everything I can find on Beta. People report paranoia, violent mood swings, even psychotic breaks when users personalize the formula without proper oversight.
Connor slumps onto the couch, rubbing his temples with a trembling hand.
CONNOR (voice raw):
Vanessa’s calling me every hour, panic attacks if I don’t pick up. It’s not just jealousy anymore… She’s terrified of being apart from me. It’s like an addiction.
Sarah steps closer, phone in hand. She unlocks it, scrolling through numerous tabs about AromaTech’s controversies. The screen flickers with bold headlines:
“Unregulated Beta Trials Raise Alarm”
“Victims Demand Accountability”
SARAH:
Then get rid of it—throw out the cologne, all of it. And for God’s sake, tell Vanessa the truth. If this is messing with her head, the secrecy will only make it worse.
Connor’s gaze flicks to her, desperation mingled with fear.
CONNOR:
Sarah, if she finds out I did this to her, I’m terrified she’ll lose it completely. She’s already so on edge.
Sarah’s phone starts buzzing again—David’s name appears on the screen. She rejects the call with a wince.
SARAH (sighing):
Look, you have to come clean. If she discovers it on her own, it’ll be a thousand times worse. We can’t keep lying about something this big. Connor, you know that.
Lightning illuminates the room, bleaching everything stark white for a moment. Connor stares at the dog tags beneath his collar, recalling the vow he once made in uniform—never to inflict unnecessary harm. The irony stings.
CONNOR (quiet determination):
All right. I’ll do it. I’ll tell her.
Sarah’s shoulders relax, a mix of empathy and relief in her eyes. Outside, thunder rolls closer, as if heralding the storm of consequences about to descend.
CHAPTER 11: THE SLIDE INTO OBSESSION
Scene 1
INT. CONNOR’S APARTMENT – LATE NIGHT
Connor stands in his tiny kitchen, phone pressed to his ear. He’s speaking in hushed tones to Sarah, reviewing Vanessa’s alarming behavior. The overhead light hums faintly, casting a dingy glow onto the chipped countertops.
Nearby, a notepad brims with scribbled phrases: therapy contacts, outlines for a possible confession, lines of remorse he’s rehearsed a dozen times. Outside, the persistent drizzle forms rivulets on the small window, the city’s neon reduced to smeared lights.
Suddenly, the front door rattles under a series of thunderous knocks. Connor nearly drops the phone. Ice floods his veins at the sheer force behind the pounding.
He opens the door to find Vanessa, hair damp with sweat, eyes wild—blazing with hurt and fury.
VANESSA (ragged breath):
You’re on the phone with her again, aren’t you? Sarah! I can hear it in your voice.
Connor struggles to respond, but Vanessa’s attention snaps to a jacket draped over a nearby chair—Sarah’s jacket, left behind weeks ago. Her face twists in betrayal.
VANESSA (pointing):
That’s her jacket! You swore she wasn’t coming around anymore. You lied to me, Connor!
The heartbreak etched into her features tears at Connor. He tries to explain, stepping forward with open palms.
CONNOR (desperate):
Vanessa, please, it’s not what you think. She’s not here. That jacket’s old—she forgot it. We haven’t seen each other in days outside of calls—
Vanessa’s tears mingle with anger, her voice cracking. Suddenly, her eyes blaze with a terrifying combination of hurt and indignation.
VANESSA:
You said you’d never lie to me. I gave you everything… and you still run to her?
She backs away, tears streaming, then bolts down the corridor. Connor rushes after her, calling her name, but she’s gone before he can reach the stairwell. He stands in the open doorway, feeling the chill of the night wind swirl around him, phone still clutched in his hand. Sarah’s voice echoes distantly—
“Connor? Connor, what happened?”
—but he can’t form words.
Scene 2t
INT. VANESSA’S APARTMENT – NEXT DAY
The apartment that once felt cozy is in disarray: half-eaten food cartons, scattered pencils, and half-finished paintings strewn about. The ever-present sound of rain thrums against the windows, a muted percussion underscoring the tension. Connor enters hesitantly, spotting Vanessa standing by a window. She’s in an old sweatshirt, hair unkempt, dark circles under her eyes.
She turns to face him, arms locked tightly across her chest.
VANESSA (hoarse, trembling):
I’m done guessing, Connor. Tell me the truth. Why do I feel like I’m losing my mind?
Connor’s mouth feels like sandpaper. He knows there’s no going back.
CONNOR:
Vanessa… I— (hesitates) The cologne I’ve been wearing… it’s not just a normal fragrance. It’s an experimental formula designed to… enhance attraction. I… used your sweat sample to customize it.
It’s out. Hanging in the air like a toxic cloud. Vanessa’s eyes flicker with dawning horror.
VANESSA:
You used my… sweat? So all these emotions, this jealousy, the nightmares—they’re because of you?
Connor tries to approach, hands raised in surrender. She recoils.
CONNOR:
I didn’t realize how potent it would be… I was afraid you’d leave if you knew how flawed I am. I just wanted to keep you close…
Her face contorts with heartbreak. She grabs a small decorative vase off a side table and hurls it at the wall. It shatters, shards of porcelain raining down.
VANESSA (voice cracking):
Get out. Now.
Connor’s eyes fill with tears. He takes a shaky step closer. She seizes a coffee mug, brandishing it, eyes blazing with betrayal.
VANESSA:
I said—out!
The finality in her voice hammers through him. He backs away, steps unsteady, then flees. The door slams behind him, leaving a suffocating silence. Inside her apartment, Vanessa sinks to her knees among the strewn debris, tears streaming down her cheeks, mind reeling at the horrifying realization of her manipulated feelings.
CHAPTER 12
Scene 1
INT. SARAH’S APARTMENT – EVENING
Thunder booms outside, rattling the windowpanes. Sarah nearly collides with a box of engagement favors as Connor bursts through the door, his coat dripping rainwater. The raw anguish on his face makes her drop everything and rush to his side.
CONNOR (voice quavering):
She knows. I told her everything, and she threw me out… She’s furious—and devastated. I’m scared she might hurt herself.
Sarah puts a hand on his shoulder, guiding him to sit on the couch. Her own eyes are heavy with worry.
SARAH:
Then we need professional help—therapy, maybe the police. She’s clearly unstable right now, and we can’t risk her doing something irreversible.
Connor shakes his head, running both hands through his damp hair.
CONNOR:
The police? I don’t want her treated like a criminal. She’s a victim—of me, of this product… I just can’t stand the thought of her being locked up or humiliated.
Sarah casts a glance at her phone on the table, which shows yet another missed call from David. A flicker of guilt crosses her face. She mutes the device entirely.
SARAH (grimly):
She needs protection from herself. You’re in no shape to handle this alone. Tomorrow, first thing, let’s go together. We’ll talk to her, see if we can convince her to get help. Please, don’t try to see her alone tonight.
Connor exhales shakily. A memory surfaces—his time in the service, kneeling beside wounded civilians after a botched mission. The vow he made to never again be responsible for hurting someone under his watch. He closes his fist around his dog tags, feeling the cold metal bite into his palm.
CONNOR (softly):
I promise. No more lies. No more hiding. Tomorrow, we’ll fix this.
They exchange a grim look. Rain lashes the windows, and lightning illuminates Sarah’s half-packed living room for an instant—showcasing the precarious state of all their lives.
Scene 2
INT. SARAH’S APARTMENT – LATER
The storm intensifies. Rain cascades in sheets, drumming incessantly on the roof. Sarah paces around a small table covered in pastel invitations, ribbons, and wedding catalogs—remnants of a future that now feels impossibly distant. Connor hovers near the window, watching the reflection of neon signs ripple in the puddles below.
SARAH (voice heavy):
I postponed the wedding. Told my relatives, David’s colleagues—everyone—that we’re dealing with personal issues. David and I barely talk. We text about the company sometimes, but…
She lifts a single invitation from the stack. Her eyes shine with tears she’s too weary to shed.
SARAH:
I’m not even sure if there’s going to be a ceremony anymore.
Connor’s gaze softens with sympathy and self-reproach. Lightning cracks the sky, throwing sharp shadows across the walls.
CONNOR:
I’m sorry. You deserve better than a fiancé who’s too preoccupied with corporate expansions to notice you’re hurting.
Sarah sets the invitation down with trembling fingers, turning to meet Connor’s eyes.
SARAH:
Right now, all I can think about is how to save Vanessa. This cologne fiasco has wrecked everything. She’s lost herself, you’re drowning in guilt, and I’m stuck in the middle. I keep feeling like… someone’s going to die if we don’t fix this.
Connor swallows hard, unable to deny the same dread. Another crash of thunder rattles the windows.
CONNOR (quietly resolute):
Tomorrow, we’ll do everything we can.
They share a somber silence as the rain continues to pummel the city. Despite the illusions of control they try to maintain, the storm inside and out feels unstoppable.
CHAPTER 13
Scene 1
EXT. CITY STREET – NIGHT
The city is a realm of endless rain, neon glimmers, and gloom. Sheets of water flood the sidewalks, distorting the reflections of flickering advertisements. Flashes of lightning reveal ghostlike skyscrapers. Amid the downpour, Vanessa stands beneath a dying streetlamp, her hoodie soaked, eyes tracking Sarah as she exits a taxi across the road.
Sarah rushes under an umbrella toward Connor’s building, anxious to plan the next morning’s intervention. Vanessa’s stare hardens, her mind spinning with chemically induced jealousy. She interprets Sarah’s presence as proof of betrayal. Her breath comes in shallow bursts, a swirl of heartbreak, anger, and desperation tangling her thoughts.
She slips into the building’s garage entrance after Sarah, unnoticed in the thick darkness. In her pocket, she grips a small canister—a leftover from a security job she did freelancing with corporate events. The label is half-scratched, but a hazard symbol remains visible. She feels her heart hammering: part of her is horrified at what she might do, another part is driven by unstoppable obsession.
Scene 2
INT. SHARED GARAGE – LATER
A single overhead bulb buzzes in the damp garage. Shadows cling to the corners, and the pungent smell of oil lingers in the stagnant air. Connor and Sarah rummage through old cardboard boxes stacked around Connor’s aging sedan. They’re searching for something—anything—that might help stabilize the situation with Vanessa. Perhaps old therapy brochures or personal items from Connor’s service days they can show her to illustrate his sincerity.
SARAH (soft chuckle, forced):
Remember when we tried to fix your mom’s lawnmower in high school? We nearly blew the thing up.
CONNOR (managing a faint smile):
She wouldn’t let me near anything with an engine after that.
He lifts a duffel bag from the trunk, revealing old uniforms, boots, and spare dog tags. Sarah notes how he lingers on them, guilt etched in his eyes. She opens a toolbox, rummaging through rusted wrenches and mismatched screws.
SARAH (trying to lighten the mood):
Maybe we can show Vanessa this. Remind her you’re not some heartless manipulator—just a guy who’s scared of losing people he loves.
Connor is about to respond when the garage door squeals open. A cold gust of rain-scented air rushes in. They turn to see Vanessa, drenched and trembling, eyes flicking between them with unhinged intensity. In her hand: the canister.
VANESSA (voice shaking):
You’re both here. Of course you are. Plotting how to… lock me up? Get rid of me?
Sarah gently sets down the toolbox, raising her hands in a calming gesture.
SARAH:
Vanessa, please. We just want to help—
Vanessa’s face twists. With swift, desperate motion, she sprays the canister directly at Sarah. A cloud of chemical aerosol envelops Sarah, who staggers back coughing and gasping. Connor darts forward, but Vanessa snatches a tire iron from the wall and brandishes it with trembling fury.
VANESSA (unsteady, voice rising):
You lied to me, Connor! You twisted my feelings with that poison. And you— (glaring at Sarah) —you’re always near him. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.
CONNOR (pleading):
Vanessa, please. That’s not true. Sarah’s just a friend who’s trying to fix the mess I made—
He’s cut off by the tire iron slamming into his ribs. Pain explodes in his side; he collapses, the world spinning as he tries to draw breath. Sarah, coughing violently, struggles to crawl away, but she can barely see through stinging eyes.
Vanessa stands over them, face ravaged by sorrow and fury. She’s shaking so badly that the tire iron rattles in her hands.
Scene 3
INT. SHARED GARAGE – LATER
A relentless buzz from the faulty overhead bulb permeates the stillness. Connor’s eyes flutter open, pain throbbing through his body. His wrists and ankles are bound with duct tape, secured to a metal support beam. He tries to move, a white-hot lance of agony shooting through his battered ribs.
Sarah lies a few feet away, also bound, red welts marking her neck and wrists. She blinks, disoriented, the remnants of the knockout spray still fogging her senses. A bruise mars her temple.
Vanessa paces in front of them, a rusty box cutter flipping open and closed in her trembling grip. Beneath her eyes, dark circles reveal exhaustion and mental torment. She looks at them as if they’re strangers and yet the only people tethering her to reality.
VANESSA (rasping):
Look at me. Look what you did to me, Connor. I barely recognize myself anymore. One day, I’m painting, enjoying life… the next, I’m this… this mess. All I think about is you, and I hate it.
Connor’s throat constricts as he notices blood on the corner of Vanessa’s mouth—he realizes she must have bitten her lip or cheek in her frenzy.
CONNOR (hoarse):
Vanessa… the formula did this to you. It amplified everything. You’re not broken. You were tricked—by me, by the company—
She shakes her head, tears streaking her face. She raises the box cutter to his cheek, the tip biting just enough to draw a thin line of blood. He hisses in pain.
VANESSA:
I can’t stop wanting you. I can’t stop hating you for making me into this.
She tears herself away, turning the blade inward toward her own chest, eyes brimming with despair.
VANESSA (broken whisper):
I don’t know what’s real. The jealousy, the nightmares… they’ve swallowed me. I can’t paint, can’t eat, can’t sleep. I can’t live like this.
CONNOR (struggling against the tape):
Vanessa, please—don’t. We can fix this. I’ll do anything. I’ll confess to the police, to the media, to anyone. We’ll get help. Therapy. Medication. Anything.
Sarah, still coughing, manages to rasp a single word through the dryness in her throat:
SARAH (weak):
Don’t…
Vanessa’s eyes flick to Sarah, a swirl of pity and resentment twisting inside. The overhead bulb blinks erratically, as if the entire scene is caught in a strobe of moral horror.
CHAPTER 14
Scene 1
From outside the garage, muffled voices and flashlight beams slice through the cracks. Connor recognizes them—not the police, but professional-sounding men, barking clipped orders. A fearful thought: AromaTech? Or maybe NovaGen, the rumored buyer of Beta’s assets.
Vanessa’s breath hitches. She steps away from Connor, box cutter still in hand. For a moment, something shifts in her eyes, a flicker of the old Vanessa who loved art and freedom.
VANESSA (voice shaking):
They’re here for the formula… or maybe for you. It doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing does.
Connor’s battered chest heaves. He tries to lunge forward, but the tape binds him fast. Panic thrums through his veins.
CONNOR:
Vanessa, you’re not alone. You’re sick because of me… but we can still find a way back. Please—
She levels a look of indescribable heartbreak at him, tears glistening.
VANESSA:
I used to be so afraid of never loving deeply. Now I’m drowning in love that isn’t even mine.
The door to the garage slams open. Dark-suited men with earpieces flood in, scanning the scene with clinical detachment.
Scene 2
Vanessa lifts the box cutter to her throat in one swift, tremulous move. Time seems to slow. Connor screams—a guttural, desperate sound that tears from his lungs, echoing off the concrete walls.
CONNOR (screaming):
No! Vanessa—NO!
But she cuts. The blade slices deep. Her eyes widen with pain, blood pouring as she collapses onto the cold floor. One of the suits curses under his breath, stepping around her as if she’s an inconvenient obstacle.
SARAH (sobbing, hoarse):
Oh God… no, no…
Sarah can’t tear her eyes away from the horror of Vanessa’s final, ragged breaths. Connor’s scream chokes into sobs. He fights against the tape so violently his wrists begin to bleed.
SUIT #1 (commanding, to others):
Secure the site. We have two survivors. Contain them and any evidence. Wipe direct links to Beta testing.
Another suit kneels by Sarah, administers a quick injection from a sleek black case—some kind of sedative or a neutralizer to keep her stable. They barely glance at Vanessa’s motionless form in the spreading pool of blood.
SUIT #2:
Subject of interest is the male—primary Beta synergy user. We need a full debrief.
Connor tries to drag himself toward Vanessa, but the men yank him back. His dog tags clink against each other, a grim echo of his broken vow. Tears streak his blood-spattered face as he stares at Vanessa’s fading life.
CONNOR (broken sob):
This is my fault… all of it…
SUIT #1:
Not our concern. Let’s move.
They cut Connor free from the beam, only to restrain him in zip ties, ignoring his cries. Sarah, half-lucid, is also pulled up. Her eyes, wet with shock, fix on Vanessa’s body.
SARAH:
Vanessa…
The suits drag Connor away into the storm-lashed night. A sleek black car waits, headlights glowing ominously. The last shot in the garage reveals Vanessa’s lifeless form, the box cutter slipping from her limp hand as the overhead bulb sputters.
CHAPTER 15: EPILOGUE
Scene 1
INT. TELEVISION NEWS STUDIO – DAYS LATER
A polished anchor sits behind a modern news desk, posture stiff, voice composed. Over his shoulder, footage of AromaTech’s building plays—journalists scrambling for soundbites.
NEWS ANCHOR (serious tone):
In a case that has shaken the city, Vanessa Parker was found deceased under tragic circumstances linked to the controversial Beta Pheromone Cologne. Two individuals, Connor Hayes and Sarah Walker, survived. AromaTech has released a statement expressing regret for any misuse of their now-discontinued Beta product.
A clip of a harried corporate spokesman from AromaTech rolls, cameras flashing:
CORPORATE SPOKESMAN:
We regret the tragedy and will cooperate fully with any inquiries. AromaTech is committed to rigorous safety standards.
Then the anchor returns onscreen:
NEWS ANCHOR:
Meanwhile, biotech conglomerate NovaGen Industries has purchased AromaTech’s research assets. Insiders suggest a rebranded formula may emerge under the name “EvoScent,” sparking controversy among consumer watchdog groups. Critics argue this signals continued corporate negligence at the expense of public safety.
He transitions to another headline, the camera widening to reveal the newscast’s glossy set.
Scene 2:
INT. AROMATECH / “NOVAGEN” LAB – MONTAGE
Workers dismantle a large AromaTech sign in the building’s lobby. In its place, sleek new lettering reads NOVAgen Labs in metallic script.
Crates labeled “Beta Cologne” are sealed for “disposal.” Instead of an incinerator, the crates disappear behind a door marked “RESEARCH – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.”
In a gleaming conference room, executives finalize a new product design. A black bottle labeled EvoScent sits at the center of the table. Marketing slides highlight bullet points: “Minimal Risk, Maximum Confidence.”
A marketing lead addresses the group in a voiceover:
MARKETING LEAD (V.O.):
We pivot to a fresh brand identity—EvoScent. Downplay the Beta fiasco; emphasize innovation. Public memory is short. Within six months, no one will connect us to the tragedy.
Nods of agreement pass around the table. The final shot lingers on the rebranded bottle, hinting at a future cycle of manipulation.
Scene 3
EXT. CITYSCAPE – DUSK
The rain has finally ceased. The city skyline stretches beneath bruised clouds, neon signs flickering to life. Traffic hums along wet roads, headlights shimmering in mirrors of rainwater. Life surges on, oblivious to individual heartbreak.
A massive billboard, half digital and half holographic, blinks overhead with glitchy transitions. It suddenly reveals a sleek black perfume bottle, labeled in bold, futuristic letters:
EvoScent – Where Confidence Meets Innovation. Coming Soon!