The Frame-Up Warehouse

A cathedral of roll-up doors. Rattling chains. COLE MERCER slips between units, jacket pulled tight like a guilty curtain.

JUNO REYES (16) drops from a shelf behind him, silent as a cat.

You’re doing the thing where you look heroic but actually you’re lost.

I’m not lost. I’m… strategically under-informed.

A slow CLAP echoes. MARIS VALE steps out of shadow in a tailored coat, holding a garment bag like it’s evidence.

Cole Mercer. Still allergic to staying framed.

Cole’s hand hovers near his empty holster—badge-shaped tan line on his belt.

You called this meeting?

I called a solution.

She unzips the garment bag. Inside: a CLEAN SUIT… and COLE’S BADGE, polished, perfect—like it never touched his life.

Juno’s eyes flick to it. Hunger and suspicion.

Is that—?

Yeah.

Wear it again. Walk into Internal Affairs. I give them the ledger that “proves” you were framed.

And the catch is… I retire?

MARIS smiles. A shark with dimples.

You hand me the scavenger crew. Names. Routes. Their little maps.

They trespass. You’re a detective. It’s practically civic duty.

Wow. You’re like if a TED Talk sued people.

Cole glances at Juno. A fraction too long.

Choose. Clean redemption… or dirty loyalty.

A BUZZ. Cole’s phone: a text from Juno—sent from her pocket.

ON SCREEN: “STALL. I’M RECORDING.”

Cole’s jaw tightens. He casually leans on a storage unit door.

So you’ve got a ledger.

I have *the* ledger. Enough to rinse your name spotless.

Laundry pun. Drink.

Maris steps closer, lowering her voice.

You were built to follow rules, Cole. These kids are built to break ankles.

Cole’s hand slips behind his back—presses something against the roll-up door latch.

The door SHOOTS UP an inch—then—

WHAM! A WALL OF BEACH BALLS bursts out, ricocheting everywhere.

Why are there so many—

I needed… cover.

Maris gets nailed in the face by a beach ball. Her composure wobbles.

Are you—?

A SECOND UNIT DOOR pops open. A SHOPPING CART RAMP falls out. Juno’s crew—unseen—WHOOPS from somewhere above.

You brought the distraction? Look at you, contributing.

Maris recovers, furious.

Take them.

Two PRIVATE SECURITY GOONS emerge. One slips on a beach ball, pinwheels, COLLIDES into the other.

Cole snatches the garment bag. Not the badge—just the BAG.

We’re stealing… fashion?

We’re stealing proof.

Maris lunges—GRABS the badge out of the bag with a snap.

You don’t get clean.

She backs away toward a side door.

Cole! She’s got your shiny emotional support badge!

Cole hesitates—one step toward Maris—

—then looks at Juno. Her recorder light blinking from her hoodie pocket.

We’ve got her voice.

We have her *confession-ish*. Run!

Cole and Juno burst out. Rain-slick pavement. A security cart idles nearby with keys in it—because of course.

Juno dives in the driver seat.

Shotgun is for people who still have jobs.

I used to have a pension.

I used to have a normal childhood. We all lose.

They peel out—TIRES SCREAM—immediately CLIP a trash can. It EXPLODES into foam packing peanuts.

Behind them, Maris exits, calm as a metronome, badge in hand. She lifts her phone, taps once.

Across the alley, DETECTIVE DANA HOLT’s car rolls in, headlights washing the scene.

HOLT steps out, clocking Cole in the cart.

Mercer! Stop!

Cole locks eyes with Holt—guilt, history, then—

Juno shoves the cart into reverse, nearly taking Holt’s door off.

Sorry, Adult Consequences!

Cole raises his hands to Holt in apology he can’t afford.

Dana—she’s laundering evidence. It’s Vale.

Holt hesitates—just long enough.

Maris, in the background, disappears into the rain like a well-funded rumor.

Vale…

The cart fishtails back to forward. Juno guns it.

You realize we just made it worse.

We made it *interesting*. Also—

—we got her on tape offering you a deal.

Cole stares ahead, rain streaking his face like he’s being erased.

She offered me my life back.

And you picked ours.

That was either very brave or very stupid.

I’m a disgraced suburban detective. It’s usually both.

They speed into the night—fugitives again, but together.