Black and white. Static flickers.

A bloodied hand punches a concrete wall. Again. And again. And again.

Close-up: barbed wire coiled around a baseball bat. A cracked set of brass knuckles. A lighter flicks open. A flame dances over gasoline-stained boots.

Jack Havoc sits on a milk crate in a dark alley. Eyes wild. Breathing heavily.

JACK HAVOC: (V.O.)
Shakespeare once wrote, "Cry, Havoc! and let slip the dogs of war."

Cut: Him taping his fists in slow motion. Blood splatters the floor.

JACK HAVOC: (V.O.)
I didn’t come to Iron City for fame... or fortune. I came for pain.

A beat.

JACK HAVOC: (V.O.)
Yours. Mine. Don’t matter.

Close-up on his cracked, broken smile. He looks straight into the camera.

JACK HAVOC:
I heard the cry. The dogs have arrived.

He grabs the camera lens

JACK HAVOC:
(whispers)
See you real soon.

JACK HAVOC IS COMING.

Static cut.