EXT. CHINATOWN ALLEY - NIGHT
RED TAIL LIGHTS reflect off the wet cement from a mid-range sedan idling at the end of the alley.
Across the street, an exposed light bulb casts flickering illumination over a nondescript metal door, recessed in the brick wall.
INT. SEDAN - CONTINUOUS
Brad fidgets in the driver's seat. He glances at the clock on the dash: 9:45.
Come on, come on....
He leans forward, surveying the empty street.
Frustrated, he throws the car into gear and taps the gas. As the car lurches forward, a MAN steps from around the corner. Brad slams on the brakes, stopping just short of hitting him.
Brad flicks on the headlights. The man (PENG), Chinese, 20s, shields his eyes with one hand and gives Brad a middle finger with the other.
Brad takes a deep breath to calm himself. He unlocks the passenger door, and Peng climbs in the car.
The fuck did I ever do to you?
I'm sorry! I... I didn't see you.
Yeah, yeah. Fucking white drivers, man.
Do you have any idea what time it is?
Peng throws him a hard look.
These things happen when they happen.
What do I tell my wife? I keep making up these stories, and sooner or later, she--
Do I seem like I give a shit about your marriage problems?
Brad shuts up.
You need therapy, you go see a therapist. You need to get inside that door....
Peng nods in the direction of the metal door. Brad stares at it, a look somewhere between fear and longing.
Well, you know.
Peng holds out his hand. Brad looks at it, confused.
Annoyed, Peng clears his throat. Brad's brain kicks back in.
Shit. Of course. Sorry.
Brad leans over and awkwardly reaches past Peng to dig around in the glove compartment. After a moment, he pulls out a small package covered in brown paper. Peng grabs it from him, pulls something from his pocket, and presses it into Brad's hand.
Pleasure doing business with you. Have a nice life.
Peng abruptly exits the car and disappears down the alley.
Brad sits in silence for a moment, staring at the door across the street. There are paint markings on it from where stenciled letters used to be, but they're too worn away to read anymore.
Brad looks down at his hand. It's clenched so tightly, the knuckles are bone-white. With great apparent effort, he forces his fist to relax and open, revealing what's inside: