EXT. COUNTRY ROAD – LATE AFTERNOON

The sun sinks low behind hills, bleeding gold and crimson across the sky. A sleek black car—low to the ground, tinted windows, matte finish—glides along the winding road like a shadow on wheels.

INT. CAR – CONTINUOUS

BILLIE, early 20s, sharp-jawed and colder than steel, drives with one hand on the wheel, the other flipping a silver coin between her fingers. Designer sunglasses hide her eyes, but the smirk curling her lip says she’s thinking three moves ahead—always. In the passenger seat, a folder rests. Labeled: "CANDIDATE FILES – REDWOOD FOSTER HOME"

She glances at it. Scoffs.

BILLIE (to herself) "Let’s see what the world threw away this year."

She taps the steering wheel once—rhythmically. Like a countdown. Or a warning.

EXT. REDWOOD FOSTER HOME – MOMENTS LATER

An aging Victorian house, flanked by rusting swings and a tired garden. Kids play out front. A soccer ball rolls near the car. A boy jogs over—then freezes.

The back window rolls down a crack. Smoke curls out. Billie’s voice slices the silence.

BILLIE "Tell them Miss Belladonna’s here."

The boy nods like he’s been caught in a spell and runs inside.

Billie steps out, heels clicking against the gravel like gunshots. Her long coat flutters behind her like a cape of shadows.

She adjusts her gloves. Surveys the place like she’s appraising a battlefield.

BILLIE "Time to find a little monster worth raising."