The skylight glows violet as the sun dips. Nelly Furtado is sitting cross-legged on a velvet couch, strumming a quiet melody on an acoustic guitar. HAYLA leans against the kitchen island, sipping mint tea, her eyes sharp and curious.
JOSEPH CHRISTIAN JUKIC (JCJ) stands by the window, looking out toward the harbor, hands clasped behind his back like a general carrying ancient grief.
JCJ (soft, reflective) Of course Tom Cruise was an old neighbor. Before all the madness. Before the handlers and the watchful eyes. We were just kids with bicycles, racing down the street like the world was small enough to hold in our pockets.
HAYLA (smiling) You’re telling me Tom Cruise used to chase you down the block?
JCJ Not chase. Compete. Even then he needed to win. But he was good. Honest good. A soul still untouched by the machinery that was waiting for him.
Nelly pauses her guitar. She knows this tone—JCJ slipping into a kind of cosmic sadness, the kind he usually hides under jokes and bravado.
NELLY What happened to him, Joe?
JCJ exhales, long and heavy, like releasing decades of dust.
JCJ A nefarious cult happened. They wrapped him in doctrine and destiny. They said they’d unlock his potential, but all they unlocked was a cage. He didn’t walk into it— (beat) —he was carried.
HAYLA steps closer, her voice a whisper.
HAYLA You think he’s still in there? The kid on the bike?
JCJ Yeah. I do. Souls don’t vanish. They get buried. But buried isn’t gone.
Nelly rests her guitar against her knee.
NELLY Joe… do you want to save him?
JCJ turns, eyes burning with a mix of loyalty and the weight of a thousand battles he never asked for.
JCJ I don’t want to save him. (softens) I just want my friend back.
The room falls still, the purple light deepening as though the universe itself leans closer, listening.
The rain tapped against the café window in a rhythm almost like a song. The neon glow outside blurred through the glass, and the faint strains of 90’s music played—Oasis, Alanis, Gin Blossoms—like ghosts from another life.
Joseph Christian Jukic sat across from Nelly, watching her sip her coffee with that same spark in her eyes she always carried, even when the world seemed heavier.
“You know,” he said, swirling his spoon, “the 90’s really were the peak of human civilization. After that? Agent Smith was right. All downhill.”
Nelly tilted her head, lips curving. “Downhill, huh? You mean Tamagotchis and Furbies were our high point?”
Joe laughed, shaking his head. “Not the toys. The feeling. Life had mystery. Music had soul. Movies had grit. People still… believed in something.”
Her eyes softened. “Yeah. Anticipation. Waiting for your song on the radio. Renting VHS tapes. That rush of not knowing.”
As she spoke, Joe drifted—pulled back into memory.
Flashback 1: Elementary School The gymnasium smelled of varnished wood and chalk. Young Joe, awkward and shy, stood in line for square dancing, dreading the moment he’d have to take someone’s hand. Then, like a light, she was there—Nelly, laughing as she twirled, her braid flying, her shoes squeaking against the polished floor. He held her hand once, clumsy and nervous, but he remembered thinking: she dances like she’s already free.
Back in the café, Joe blinked, smiling faintly at the memory.
Nelly caught his look. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. “Just remembering.”
Flashback 2: High School He was in the hallway, his friend shoving a yearbook into his hands. Joe flipped through absentmindedly until he stopped—her picture. A teenage Nelly, smiling in a way that seemed half shy, half rebellious. He stared too long, his friend nudging him. “You like her, don’t you?” Joe brushed it off, but in his mind he thought: she looks like she’s already planning her escape into something bigger.
Nelly was still talking about the 90’s, but Joe wasn’t really hearing her words anymore. He was hearing his own history with her, woven into moments she didn’t even know he carried.
Flashback 3: Television The living room was dim, only the blue glow of the TV lighting his face. Joe was older now, working long hours, worn from the grind. And then—there she was. On screen. Nelly Furtado, singing “I’m Like a Bird”, her voice soaring, her presence magnetic. Joe leaned forward, stunned. The girl he’d once danced with in elementary school, the face he’d studied in a yearbook photo, was now lighting up the world. He felt a rush in his chest, pride mixed with disbelief. She did it. She’s really flying.
The memory broke as Nelly’s laughter filled the café again, bringing him back.
“And if I’m going to relive the 90’s,” she teased, “I need a man at his peak. Someone as handsome as Josh Duhamel. Just to one-up Fergie.”
Joe smirked. “Josh Duhamel, huh? That’s your standard?”
She leaned closer, voice playful. “Handsome. Charming. The whole package.”
Joe gave a mock sigh. “What Nelly wants, Nelly gets. If you want Josh Duhamel, I’ll—”
“Stop.”
Her tone froze him. Her hand slid across the table, resting on his. Her eyes searched his like she was looking for the right lyric.
“You don’t get it,” she said softly. “You’ve been there since the beginning. From the square dances, to high school, to the first time you saw me on TV… you’ve always seen me. And the truth is, Joe—you’re the handsome one. You’re the man who outshines them all.”
He swallowed hard, stunned.
“You’re not Axl Rose with an appetite for destruction,” she continued, her voice trembling with sincerity. “You’re Joe Jukic, with an appetite for creation. You build, you protect, you make life beautiful. That’s the man I need. That’s the man I choose.”
The café melted away—the rain, the neon, the hum of old songs. For Joe, there was only this: the girl he had carried in his memories across decades, sitting before him now, telling him the truth he never thought he’d hear.
Civilization might have peaked in the 90’s, but love, love was peaking now.
The dim glow of a single red lamp bathed Selena Gomez’s bedroom in a haunting light. On her wall, above silk-draped pillows and velvet sheets, hung a massive poster: “KNIGHT TIME”—bold, gothic letters over an image of Joe Jukic in a sleek black suit, standing like a king without a throne.
Selena lay on the bed, staring up at it, her fingers tracing imaginary lines in the air. She bit her lower lip, her mind spinning. Joe—Nelly Furtado’s trophy husband—was an enigma. A knight in an age of disposable men. He was untouchable, unshaken, while she… she had to settle for Benny Blanco.
Her eyes flickered toward Benny. He sat at the foot of the bed, scrolling his phone, oblivious. He never noticed the way she looked at that poster.
But tonight was different. Tonight, she was hungry.
Selena shifted, stretching like a panther, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders. “Benny,” she murmured, her voice syrupy sweet.
He looked up, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
She crawled toward him, slow and deliberate, her lips curving into a smirk. “Do you love me?”
Benny chuckled, scratching his head. “Uh… yeah? Obviously?”
She tilted her head, her eyes gleaming. “Would you do anything for me?”
“Of course,” he said, but the hesitation was there.
“Good.” She smiled. “Then let me love you… completely.“
Before he could respond, her hands were on his shoulders, pushing him back against the headboard. Her eyes darkened, pupils expanding. Her breath came in slow, controlled waves.
Like a serpent, her mouth stretched impossibly wide. Her teeth, small and sharp, gleamed in the dim light. Benny’s scream barely left his throat before she devoured him whole, her body expanding to accommodate his form. His phone clattered to the floor. The room fell into silence.
Selena sat still for a moment, her belly unnaturally rounded. Slowly, she licked her lips, exhaling a deep sigh of satisfaction.
She leaned back on the bed, tracing a finger across her stomach, feeling the faint movements inside—twitching, then stillness.
Her eyes drifted back to the “KNIGHT TIME” poster.
