The rain falls softly over a dim Los Angeles skyline. Neon flickers. A rooftop.
Solid Snake leans against a concrete ledge, cigarette ember glowing in the dark. Across from him stands Solid Snake, older, quieter, carrying the weight of too many missions. And in front of him — not a pop myth, not a headline — but Nelly Furtado.
SNAKE:
You know… I’ve operated in every shadow this town can cast. Hollywood’s full of ghosts. Actresses. Spies. Double agents wearing perfume instead of camo.
(He exhales smoke.)
But you… you’re the only girl in this city I’ve got history with.
NELLY:
History? Or unfinished business?
SNAKE:
History means I remember who I was before the noise. Before the missions blurred together. Before everyone started playing roles instead of telling the truth.
(He looks at her directly now — no battlefield distance.)
That’s why it’s you.
NELLY:
You’re saying I’m “the one,” Snake?
SNAKE:
I don’t believe in destiny. I believe in patterns. Survival. Trust built under pressure.
You and me? We’ve already walked through fire once. That kind of bond doesn’t show up twice in the same war zone.
(A helicopter hums faintly in the distance.)
NELLY (softly):
And if Hollywood tries to rewrite the script?
SNAKE:
Then we don’t let it.
Some snakes guard the garden.
And some things… you protect.
The city glows below them — not a battlefield tonight, just possibility.