INT. DENISE'S ARTIST LOFT - NIGHT The dim light reveals Denise, asleep, her breathing just audible over the ticking of a nearby clock. A half-devoured pizza lays abandoned in a large box beside her nesting place. Suddenly, the tranquility is shattered by an urgent BANGING on the door. ROBERT (O.S.) OPEN UP! Denise bolts upright, scrambling down a ladder, her feet dancing into a glittering rainbow kimono as she makes for the door. With a swift movement, the door swings open to reveal Robert and Eduardo standing in the hallway, just beyond the threshold. DENISE What's this? Who's he? Eduardo offers her an awkward, polite grin. ROBERT Meet Eduardo. We're coming in--no argument. They stride past her, with Eduardo's gaze immediately captured by the eclectic assortment of Denise's equipment strewn about the loft. EDUARDO Impressive. It's like you've rigged a creature from Mary Shelley to wield a conductor's baton. Engrossing. DENISE, unamused, narrows her eyes at him. DENISE And your credentials for critiquing my setup would be? EDUARDO Oh, I've dabbled in software--formerly overseeing the AI and vision tech for Tesla's Autopilot systems. Denise offers a mocking round of applause. ROBERT That's neither here nor there. There's been an incident at the festival, Denise. We suspect a sonic weapon. DENISE A sonic what now? You think sound waves attacked the crowd with phantom blows? EDUARDO Precisely. It's called infrasound--these are low frequencies undetectable by human ears but can affect us nonetheless, similar to how whales communicate. ROBERT, holding up a device that looks sinister even in the dim light. ROBERT Your music, Denise, it quelled the infrasound which emanated from this... Denise's eyes go wide, her face a mixture of surprise and fear. DENISE Holy shit, indeed. ROBERT We're up against another potential assault, possibly more severe. We need your expertise to pinpoint what exactly your music did at the festival. DENISE Fine, just so long as you don't plan on using that nefarious sonic blaster on me. ROBERT We wouldn't dare point it straight at you. DENISE That's comforting. Still a hard pass. ROBERT Unfortunately, opting out isn't within the cards for you. DENISE Drop dead, you sack of crap. EDUARDO Your descriptive choice is apt. However, Denise, there could be a safer environment for you--a soundproof space. No direct exposure and freedom to exit as you wish. (To Robert) I assume the feds have their own anechoic chamber and acoustic expert on call? ROBERT We don't, actually. Eduardo regards him skeptically. EDUARDO Really now? And why's that? DENISE Don't care. I'm not playing lab rat. Robert leans forward, their faces uncomfortably close, his voice lowering to a growl. ROBERT It's either cooperation or an indefinite stay in a windowless room, courtesy of the FBI. EDUARDO He's not fibbing. He pulled that stunt on my own mother. ROBERT Though, she didn't seem to mind the extensive library. The prison's selection of steamy romances is quite extensive... EDUARDO SHE READS HISTORICAL FICTION, YOU MONSTER! Suddenly, Denise's eyes narrow--Robert's voice invades her mind, though his lips are still. ROBERT (V.O.) Threats. It's the only lever I have. Perhaps I should insinuate harm towards her dog. I'll stoop as low as necessary. When Robert's actual voice cuts in again, the threat looms larger. ROBERT The sooner you get this figured out, the sooner you're rid of me. Inspiration strikes Denise, a devious sparkle in her eye. DENISE Well then, since we're bartering, I know a guy. Might be a bit of a tool, but he's got this killer soundproof setup. It's decked out to the nines--real state-of-the-art, funded by all the best drug money can buy.

INT. DENISE'S ARTIST LOFT - NIGHT The room is cast in shadows, with Denise snoozing soundly. The remains of a large pizza reside in a box beside her. Abruptly, a series of LOUD KNOCKS jolts the night's calm. ROBERT (O.S.) OPEN UP! Startled, Denise jolts awake, quickly descending her loft's ladder. She slides into a dazzling rainbow kimono and strides toward the door. She opens it to find Robert and Eduardo awaiting entry. DENISE And who might you be? Eduardo musters a cordial smile, tinged with discomfort. ROBERT This is Eduardo. Make room; we're coming through. They brush past Denise, who watches as Eduardo inspects her creative chaos with curiosity. EDUARDO Remarkable. You've turned a mythical creature into a symphonic maestro. Intriguing. DENISE, not impressed, bears down on him with a cynical tone. DENISE So, your critical ...

INT. GRASSHOPPER/WOLFIE'S HOUSE - NIGHT Wolfie enters through the front door, his eyes scanning a cluster of envelopes and flyers clutched in his grip. Raising his gaze, he's met with an unsettling scene--Grasshopper, on his knees, violently jerking his head by a fistful of his own hair, while his other hand deals out a sequence of harsh slaps to his own face. WOLFIE (distaste evident) This is beyond pathetic, dude. The self-inflicted rhythm halts abruptly. Grasshopper's head pivots toward Wolfie, his twisted smile unfurling like that of a malevolent Cheshire cat. GRASSHOPPER Fires will consume all but the chosen... And you, Wolfie, you're not one I'm meant to rescue. (then, with revelation) Not that I would if I could. WOLFIE (dismissively) I'm not here for your creepy monologues. With a shake of his head, Wolfie trudges off, disappearing upstairs, as Grasshopper resumes his disturbing act, the sound of slaps echoing in the now-quiet house.

INT. WOLFIE'S ROOM - NIGHT Wolfie is hunched over his computer, deeply absorbed in a series of interviews streaming on his screen. Each person takes their turn recounting the chaos of the Caveman Bash. A hotline number scrolls repetitively along the bottom edge, a desperate call for leads. The tense quietude is ripped apart by a SCREAM, piercing through the backyard's darkness. Wolfie's startled face reflects the glow from his screen as he abandons his desk and bolts to the window for a better look. EXT. BACKYARD - CONTINUOUS Grasshopper is hunched over, wearing his exertion and the earth itself like a second skin. He furiously claws into the ground, forming a crude excavation with primal urgency. His actions are frenetic, echoing a ferocity that's almost inhuman. Abruptly, the digging ceases and Grasshopper's face rises to meet Wolfie's gaze. Their eyes lock--an electric, shocking moment--and Wolfie retreats from the window with a gasp. WOLFIE (mutters anxiously) Not cool, not cool at all... In a hurried motion, Wolfie fishes his phone out, thumb dancing over the digits. WOLFIE (into phone) Yeah, hi. Name's Wolfie. Look, I was at your trainwreck of a bash and, trust me, I'm trying to ignore these uninvited eyeball fiestas in my head, but whatever, I deal. Wolfie returns to the window, curiosity peeking through his distress, but Grasshopper's gone--vanished like a specter. WOLFIE My roomie Grasshopper though? He's gone full psycho, like whatever hit him at that party left a nasty mark. Turning away from his voyeur perch, a jolt of terror floods him--Grasshopper stands in the doorway, his presence a silent threat. WOLFIE (stammering, attempting nonchalance) Ha, I was... just kidding around! You know, classic roomie banter, right? Haha... Wolfie swallows his fear, the phone a useless weight in his hand.

INT. WOLFIE'S ROOM - NIGHT Wolfie intently watches interview clips on his computer about the Caveman Bash incident. Scrolling below is the hotline number. Abruptly, a scream from outside startles him. He rushes to the window. EXT. BACKYARD - CONTINUOUS Grasshopper is furiously digging in the dirt with bare hands, movements frantic and erratic. He pauses to lock eyes with Wolfie. Back inside, Wolfie steps away, unnerved. He pulls out his phone and dials the hotline. WOLFIE Hey, I'm Wolfie, calling about Caveman Bash... minus my current head trip. But Grasshopper, my roomie? He's gone off the deep end. Glancing back to the yard, Wolfie sees nothing; Grasshopper has disappeared. When Wolfie turns around, Grasshopper stands ominously in the doorway. WOLFIE I'm kidding! Just messing around, ha...

INT. GRASSHOPPER/WOLFIE'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Grasshopper is motionless on the sofa, gaze fixed on nothing. The doorbell chimes, stirring him. He rises without a word and goes to the door. OUTSIDE A MYSTERIOUS FIGURE in a black unitard stands on the porch. Identical to the gunman from Caveman Bash, a singular eye peers out from the mask. The figure hands Grasshopper a long briefcase. Grasshopper takes it and shuts the door without a word exchanged. Grasshopper, briefcase in hand, walks past Wolfie, who is bizarrely close to the wall, his face pressed against it, whispering to himself. EXT. GRASSHOPPER/WOLFIE'S BACKYARD - CONTINUOUS Grasshopper, under the night sky, places the briefcase into the previously dug hole and methodically begins to cover it with soil, burying the mysterious delivery.

INT. CORNDOG'S WAREHOUSE - NIGHT CornDog, 35, lean with tattoos mapping his body in a testament to tough living, leads Denise, Robert, and Eduardo down the expanse of his warehouse - a dual-purpose domain serving as both his residence and a shrine to sound manipulation. CORNDOG (chatting non-stop) ...this side's my digs, complete with the crapper. And over yonder, that's the holy grail - my studio. You'll see, it's got a cleanliness that's borderline sacred. 'Scuse the language, Padre. Still keepin' it righteous, promise. Denise can't help it - she explodes with laughter at the contradiction. CORNDOG (snarling with offense) I'm dead serious, you ungracious wench. They approach a door, "STUDIO" unassumingly marked, a portal to a quieter sanctum separate from the rest of the industrial space.