Issue 6 part 1

Panel 1:Wide shot of the Club Noche fight arena interior. The space is completely empty — no crowd, no staff. A single cone of dim overhead light illuminates the ring at center. Slik stands shirtless inside the ring, holding his Samurai blade pointed downward at Creed Rivers, who kneels on both knees, shirtless, battered, blood on his lip and chin. Both men are sweat-soaked and bruised from their fight. The surrounding arena is dark and cavernous.

Panel 2:Medium shot on Slik from the chest up. His jaw is set, eyes cold and contemptuous, Samurai blade held at his side. A fresh cut above his brow is still seeping. His posture is that of a man who has already decided the outcome.

“Slik: It's funny. You cops always talk about justice. But you only follow it when it suits you.”

Panel 3:Close-up on Creed Rivers' face from below. His lip is split, blood smeared on his chin. He looks up directly at Slik with hard, unflinching eyes. He spits a mouthful of blood sideways onto the canvas.

“Creed Rivers: And you follow vengeance for a sick bastard who sold kids.”

Panel 4:Medium close shot on Slik's face. His eyes harden — a flash of controlled anger — but the corner of his mouth almost curls into a dismissive laugh. He looks down at Creed with cold disbelief.

“Slik: Underage girls? You believe your department's fake headlines now?”

Panel 1:Medium shot of Creed Rivers still on his knees, chin raised, meeting Slik's gaze without flinching. His hands are braced against his thighs. Blood drips from his chin to the canvas. Creed should be shirtless. In the empty arena ring

“Creed Rivers: Save it. Your boy JP told me all about your operation.”

Panel 2:Extreme close-up on Slik's hand tightening around the hilt of the Samurai blade. His knuckles go white. The blade's edge catches the overhead light in a thin gleam.

Panel 3:Medium shot of Creed, still kneeling, continuing to speak. His expression is flat and deliberate — not taunting, just stating facts. Creed should be shirtless

“Creed Rivers: He told me what happened that night. Ramirez wasn't innocent. But your brother still let it happen.”

Panel 4:Wide panel: Slik swings the handle of the Samurai blade in a fast downward arc, slamming it into the side of Creed's face. Creed's head snaps sideways, blood and sweat spraying from the impact. Slik's teeth are gritted, his whole body behind the strike. Creed and Slik should be shirtless

“Slik: You idiot.”

Panel 5:Medium shot of Slik from behind, pacing away across the canvas. His back muscles are taut, ribs visibly bruised. He runs a hand through his hair, the Samurai blade hanging loose at his side. Slik should be shirtless

“Slik: JP was the one feeding Ramirez. Joker killed Ramirez when he found out.”

Panel 1:Wide shot of the empty arena ring. Both men are still — Creed on his knees, head bowed, blood dripping from his face. Slik stands several feet away, blade at his side, not looking at Creed. The vast dark arena surrounds them. Silence made visible by the emptiness. Slik and Creed should be shirtless.

Panel 2:Close-up on Slik's face in profile. He brings one hand up and rubs his face slowly, palm dragging from forehead to chin. His eyes are open, staring at nothing. His breathing is visible — chest rising and falling. Slik should be shirtless.

“Slik: You're telling me… my brother died because of a lie?”

Panel 3:Medium close shot of Creed Rivers on his knees. His head is still lowered. He says nothing. His jaw is tight, blood running down the side of his face from the sword handle blow. Creed should be shirtless.

Panel 4:Medium shot of Slik from the front. He stares up at the dark ceiling of the arena. His expression is hollow. He speaks quietly, to himself as much as to Creed. Slik should be shirtless.

“Slik: Everyone lies. Everyone pulls strings. We're all just weapons.”

Panel 5:Medium shot: Slik raises the Samurai blade with both hands, pointing the tip directly at Creed's face. Creed looks up at it, eyes steady. The blade gleams in the single overhead light. Slik and Creed should be shirtless.

Panel 1:Wide shot: The heavy arena doors at the far end of the space burst open with a crash. Momma Noche strides through the doorway, flanked by four armed men in dark clothes. The light from the corridor behind her silhouettes the group. Her expression is furious as she surveys the ring.

“Momma Noche: What is this chaos in my club?”

Panel 2:Medium shot of Slik standing inside the ring, turning his head sharply toward the doors. His body rotates instinctively toward the sound and movement, blade momentarily dropping. Slik should be shirtless.

Panel 3:Close-up on Creed Rivers' face — eyes snapping up, reading the moment. His jaw sets. Then a wide panel: Creed explodes upward from his knees, driving a desperate right fist hard into Slik's exposed left ribs. His whole body is behind the punch. Slik and Creed should be shirtless.

Panel 4:Wide shot: Slik buckles sideways, dropping to one knee, the Samurai blade clattering to the canvas. His face is locked in a grimace of pain, one hand clutching his taped ribs. Creed is already moving — rolling under the ring ropes in a low dive. Slik and Creed should be shirtless.

Panel 5:Wide shot of the arena floor from above: Creed sprints across the open floor toward a side door. Momma Noche's men fan out from the entrance, raising their weapons. Muzzle flashes erupt — bullet holes tear chunks from the wall and floor near Creed. Creed should be shirtless.

Panel 1:Medium shot from outside: Creed crashes through a side door, shoulder-first, bursting into the open night air. His face is bloody, shirt gone, one arm raised to shield his face from the splintering door frame.

Panel 2:Wide shot of an empty industrial parking lot at night. Creed sprints across the asphalt toward a red GTO parked under a distant streetlight. His shadow stretches long behind him. No pursuers visible — just open dark lot and the car.

Panel 3:Close-up on Creed's hand yanking the GTO's door open and throwing himself into the driver's seat. His knuckles are split and bloody.

Panel 4:Wide exterior shot: the red GTO's tires screech and smoke as it peels out of the parking lot at high speed, headlights cutting through the dark. Club Noche's neon sign glows red in the background, shrinking in the rearview.

Panel 5:Wide shot of a quiet industrial lot on the outskirts of the city. The red GTO is parked alone under a single buzzing sodium light. The city skyline glows faintly in the far background. No movement.

Panel 6:Medium close shot inside the GTO. Creed sits slumped back in the driver's seat, head against the headrest, eyes closed. His face is a map of the fight — split lip, bruised cheek, blood drying. His phone rests on his thigh. The screen lights up.

Panel 1:Insert shot: the phone screen showing an incoming call. The name on the screen reads 'THE CHIEF.' The screen glows in the dark interior of the car.

Panel 2:Medium close shot of Creed inside the car. He stares at the phone without picking up. He presses decline. A beat — then the screen lights up again. He stares at it.

Panel 3:Insert shot: a text message on the phone screen. It reads: 'I need to talk to you. It's about Aline.'

Panel 4:Medium shot inside the GTO. Creed sits up straighter, jaw tight. He puts the phone to his ear and answers. His expression is hard and guarded.

“Creed Rivers: You're the last person I want to hear from right now, old man.”

Panel 5:Split panel — left side: Creed inside the dark GTO, phone to ear, leaning forward. Right side: the Chief in a dim office, phone pressed to his ear, jacket off, tie loosened, his weathered face carrying unusual gravity instead of command.

“Chief: Aline's safe. Doctors say no real injuries. Whoever attacked her used chloroform.”

Panel 6:Close-up on Creed's face inside the GTO. His expression shifts — relief breaking through the hard mask. He exhales slowly, eyes closing for just a moment.

“Chief: And Creed — I owe you an apology. I sold you out. Creed Rivers: Yeah. No shit.”

Panel 1:Medium shot inside the GTO. Creed listens, phone to ear, staring through the windshield at the empty industrial lot. His expression is unreadable. The Chief's words are landing. The chief’s dialogue bubble should be coming from the phone.

“Chief: There should never have been a truce with the Noches. We're cops. They're criminals. That's where it ends.”

Panel 2:Close-up on Creed's profile inside the car. His jaw muscles flex. Outside the windshield, the faint city glow is visible on the horizon. The chief’s dialogue bubble should be coming from the phone.

“Chief: We're launching a full operation on Club Noche. Official. No shadows. I need you leading it.”

Panel 3:Medium close shot of Creed inside the GTO. He pulls the phone slightly from his ear, looking at nothing. A beat of silence. His thumb hovers over the screen.

“Creed Rivers: I don't want to get burned again.”

Panel 4:Medium shot: Creed brings the phone back to his ear. His posture straightens. He stares forward through the windshield, decision made. His expression is grim and resolved.

“Chief: You are one of us. If they're after you, they're after all of us. I don't want to lose a good detective.”

Panel 5:Wide shot inside the GTO from the back seat looking forward. Creed sits in the driver's seat, phone to ear, city glow through the windshield ahead. The car is still. A long beat of silence across the panel.

Panel 6:Close-up on Creed's face. His eyes are steady. His split lip is set in a hard line. He speaks.

“Creed Rivers: …Alright, Chief. One final war with the Noches.”

Panel 1:Medium shot of a dim bedroom inside Club Noche. Slik lies on a bed, shirtless, ribs wrapped in white medical tape, a butterfly stitch above his eyebrow. He stares at the ceiling. The room is dark except for a thin line of light under the door.

Panel 2:Medium shot: the bedroom door opens. Kaleen stands in the doorway, the corridor light behind her silhouetting her form. She looks at Slik with concern on her face — brow furrowed, lips pressed together.

“Kaleen: Baby, we need to talk.”

Panel 3:Over-shoulder shot from behind Kaleen looking at Slik on the bed. He hasn't moved. His eyes are still on the ceiling. Kaleen steps closer.

“Kaleen: Look at you. You're a mess lately. Slik: This whole Creed Rivers thing…its been a lot”

Panel 4:Medium close shot of Kaleen sitting on the edge of the bed beside Slik. She looks at him directly, her expression shifting from concern to something firmer.

“Kaleen: Yeah. But things didn't go to hell until your mother came. Can't you see the effect she's having on you?”

Panel 5:Close-up on Kaleen's face. Her eyes are earnest and urgent. She reaches out and puts her hand on Slik's chest, over his taped ribs.

“Kaleen: She's a poison. You need to get away from her. We should run away together.”

Panel 6:Medium close shot of Slik's face, finally turning to look at Kaleen. His expression is raw — not tears, but a visible crack in the hardness. His eyes focus on her for the first time since she entered. Jalen’s speech bubble coming from her not Slik

“Slik: ….I would. Kaleen: We could make a legit boxing club. You’ll be the coach! No drugs, no crime. Just you and me. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Panel 7:Wide shot of the bedroom: the door swings open without a knock. Momma Noche stands in the doorway, upright and imperious, dressed sharply. She surveys the room — Slik on the bed, Kaleen beside him — with an expression of cold impatience.

“Momma Noche: Kaleen. I need to talk to my son. Your services aren't required at the moment.”

Panel 1:Medium shot of Kaleen standing from the bed, looking at Slik for a brief moment with a guarded expression, then walking past Momma Noche toward the door without a word. Momma Noche doesn't look at her as she passes. The room is dim with regular yellow light

Panel 2:Medium shot of Momma Noche standing over Slik's bed, arms crossed, staring down at him. Her expression is contemptuous. Slik sits up on the bed, meeting her gaze.

“Momma Noche: You turned my club into a playground. You could have shot him in the parking lot. Instead — theatrics.”

Panel 3:Medium close shot of Slik on the bed. He looks up at his mother. His hands rest on his knees. His voice is quiet but deliberate when he speaks. Slik is shirtless under jacket with bandage wraps around his ribs

“Slik: Do you remember the mob boss you sent me after? His family wasn't supposed to be there.”

Panel 4:Close-up on Slik's face. He looks directly up at Momma Noche, jaw set.

“Slik: You never apologized. You never asked if I was okay carrying that. Did you even care?”

Panel 5:Medium shot of Momma Noche. She throws her head back and laughs — a genuine, open-mouthed laugh. There is no warmth in it. She looks at Slik as though the question is absurd.

“Momma Noche: Accident? Oh my God, son… you still don't understand?”

Panel 1:Medium close shot of Momma Noche stepping forward toward Slik, her laughter fading to a cold, clinical expression. She looks down at him the way a surgeon looks at a patient.

“Momma Noche: I knew his family would be there. I wanted you to kill them.”

Panel 2:Close-up on Slik's face. No rage. No tears. His expression empties completely — a man whose foundation has just been removed. His eyes are open and fixed on nothing.

Panel 3:Medium close shot of Momma Noche, her expression shifting now — calculating, almost businesslike. She studies Slik with cold detachment.

“Momma Noche: I already had Joker's mind. I needed you as my weapon. No hesitation. No softness.”

Panel 4:Wide shot: Momma Noche turns and walks toward the door, her back to Slik. She pauses, glancing back over her shoulder. Slik sits motionless on the bed behind her.

“Momma Noche: If I knew it would make you a coward, I might have done things differently. What am I supposed to do now without Joker?”

Panel 5:Wide shot: the door closes. Slik sits alone on the bed in near-total darkness. The room is completely still. He looks down at his own hands resting on his knees — both open, palms up.

Panel 6:Close-up on Slik's hands in his lap — both open, palms up, the hands of a fighter and a killer staring back at him. The taped ribs are visible at the top of the frame.

Panel 1:Medium shot of Slik standing up from the bed in a single motion. His posture has changed — he is upright, deliberate, calm. He is not enraged. He has made a decision. He walks toward the door.

Panel 2:Wide shot of a hallway inside Club Noche. Slik walks down the corridor, moving with deliberate, unhurried steps. The hallway is dim, lit by low wall sconces. He reaches a door at the far end marked with a faint light inside.

Panel 3:Medium shot: Slik steps into Momma Noche's office and closes the door behind him. Momma Noche sits behind her desk, papers in front of her, looking up with mild irritation. The office is furnished with dark wood and dim lamplight.

“Momma Noche: Yes, son. What do you need now?”

Panel 4:Medium close shot: Slik stands in front of the closed door. He reaches to his side and draws the Samurai blade from its scabbard in a slow, deliberate motion. He does not raise it — he holds it at his side, the blade gleaming in the lamplight. His face is completely expressionless.

Panel 5:Close-up on Momma Noche's face behind the desk. She looks at the drawn blade. A slow smile spreads across her face — not fear, but something like dark pride.

“Momma Noche: Wow. Maybe you aren't such a coward after all.”

Panel 1:Wide shot of the office: Momma Noche rises from behind the desk, both arms extended forward. From the gauntlets on her wrists, a massive crackling blast of purple lightning erupts toward Slik across the room. The energy blast lights the entire office in violent purple-white light.

Panel 2:Full dramatic panel: Slik stands his ground, the Samurai blade held vertically in front of him at chest height. The purple lightning blast strikes the flat of the blade and cascades off to either side — arcs of energy exploding against the walls and ceiling. Slik's teeth are bared, arms rigid, feet planted. Across the room, Momma Noche's gauntlets continue to pour the blast. The entire scene is lit by the crackling purple-white energy. It is a lateral view with slik and momma noche standing across from each other but facing each other. Slik is holding his Samurai sword vertically upward to block the incoming lightning.

Panel 3:Medium shot: the lightning blast ends. Slik lowers the Samurai blade slightly, but he’s still holding it, smoke rising from the blade's edge. His eyes lock onto Momma Noche across the desk. He takes one step forward. POV from behind Slik

Panel 4:Close-up on Momma Noche's face in the moment of impact — a split second after Slik's blade drives into her abdomen. Her mouth is open wide in shock. Her eyes are wide and disbelieving. Her hands are frozen at her sides, the gauntlets dark and spent. The expression on her face is pure stunned disbelief. Don’t have Slik in this panel