Beneath the Skin

INT. TAXI – DAY
The steady hum of tires on asphalt fills the air. Outside, the bright summer sun glares over Perth’s streets, reflecting off car windows, storefronts, and eucalyptus trees swaying lazily in the dry heat. The temperature presses down like a weight—ordinary, but oppressive. Something in the air feels… off. A storm, perhaps, lingering just beyond the horizon.

Inside the taxi, ALEXIS LIM — early twenties, slim, with soft, attentive features — sits quietly in the back seat. She’s dressed practically: a simple T-shirt, clean jeans, and comfortable canvas shoes, her dark red hoodie draped loosely over her frame like a cocoon. Her hoodie feels almost out of place in the heat, but she clutches it around her — a small relic of emotional security.

Her fingers scroll absently through her phone, flicking as she reads up and down, but she’s reading intently — her brows slightly furrowed, her focus sharp.

INSERT – PHONE SCREEN
A headline scrolls into view, accompanied by a photograph of an elegant middle-aged woman, smiling.

“Renowned Endocrinologist Found Dead in Brutal Late-Night Attack.”
“Police Search for Suspects in Shocking Murder of Dr. Jolene Harrison.”

Beneath the headline, details of the murder: the violent nature of the attack, the lack of suspects, and a suggestion of “personal motive suspected.”

A line catches Alexis’s attention: ‘Sources claim Dr. Harrison was last seen at a private dinner with colleagues on the night of her death.’

INT. TAXI – CONTINUOUS
Alexis frowns, her thumb lingering over the article. Her other hand taps lightly on the edge of her notebook—a quick, rhythmic pattern that matches her thoughts. It’s a nervous habit, one that seems to keep her grounded.

Her phone screen dims as she drifts deeper into thought, eyes flicking over Dr. Harrison’s photo.

CUTAWAY – CLOSE-UP ON ALEXIS
For the first time, we see her fully — her expression thoughtful, her dark eyes curious but uncertain. She carries a kind of quiet intensity.

The taxi slows, pulling her out of her thoughts.

TAXI DRIVER
Miss? We’ve arrived at your destination.

Alexis blinks, quickly refocusing. She gathers her things, checking Pernilla’s address one last time on her phone — Suite 290, Apartment 25.

EXT. APARTMENT COMPLEX – DAY
Alexis steps out of the taxi and immediately squints against the glare of the sun. The heat wraps around her like a blanket, the dry scent of eucalyptus and distant petrol lingering in the air. She pulls up the hood of her dark red hoodie, despite the warmth—an unconscious gesture, as if trying to disappear into the fabric.

The apartment building rises in front of her—modern, clean, eerily quiet. The only sounds are the chirps of birds and the faint hum of the city far in the background.

EXT. COMPLEX ENTRANCE – DAY
At the security booth, a guard sips water lazily from a bottle. He barely glances up as Alexis approaches.

SECURITY GUARD
(dully)
Name?

ALEXIS
(focused, checking her phone)
Alexis Lim. I’m here to see… Pernilla Jacobsson.

She glances down at her phone again, even though she knows the name by heart, her fingers fidgeting on the screen as if needing something to hold onto.

SECURITY GUARD
Suite 290. Take the lift up.

He gestures toward the far side of the courtyard without much interest. Alexis gives a quick nod of thanks but is already halfway across the courtyard, thoughts racing faster than her steps.

She hurries across the courtyard, her notebook clutched tightly in one hand, fingers drumming lightly on the cover as she walks. The tapping echoes the rhythm of her wandering mind — small, rapid-fire bursts of thought she can’t quite pin down.

INT. APARTMENT BUILDING – LOBBY – DAY
The automatic doors glide open silently as Alexis steps inside. The cool air-conditioning brushes over her skin, a sharp contrast to the oppressive heat outside. The lobby is sterile, polished, almost too perfect—the kind of place that feels functional but devoid of life.

Alexis adjusts the straps of her bag and makes her way toward the lift, her steps light but deliberate. Her notebook taps lightly against her thigh, matching the nervous rhythm of her mind.

INT. LIFT – DAY
Inside the lift, mirrored walls reflect Alexis’s figure — her hoodie slightly too big on her small frame. She presses the button for the twenty-first floor and watches the doors close with a soft hiss. The brief silence inside the lift feels too intimate, like she’s trapped inside her own thoughts.

Alexis catches her reflection out of the corner of her eye — a flicker of doubt in her gaze, her lips pressed into a tight line. She tugs at the zipper of her hoodie, as if adjusting the fabric might settle the anxiety quietly stirring in her chest.

INT. SECOND FLOOR HALLWAY – DAY
The lift chimes softly as the doors open. Alexis steps into the long hallway, her shoes making faint sounds on the polished floor. The corridor is dimly lit, with blinds half-drawn to block out the summer heat.

She checks her phone again — Apartment 25 — and walks slowly down the hallway, counting the doors as she passes. The faint hum of conversation drifts from a nearby apartment, but it only makes the silence around her feel heavier.

She stops in front of Apartment 25, Suite 290 and lingers for a moment, the number on the door reassuringly clear — but the weight in her chest doesn’t lift.

EXT. APARTMENT 25, SUITE 290 – DAY
Alexis raises her hand to ring the doorbell, her finger hovering over the button. She hesitates, just for a beat, sensing that once she presses it, there will be no going back.

Then, she presses the bell. The sound chimes softly—ordinary, almost cheerful—but it feels out of place against the thick tension in the air.

She shifts from foot to foot, glancing briefly over her shoulder at the empty hallway, as if expecting something—or someone—to appear. But the only sound is the faint hum of the apartment’s air-conditioning unit buzzing overhead.

Her heartbeat picks up, just slightly. She pulls her hoodie sleeves down over her hands, fidgeting with the cuffs, trying to tame the restless energy building inside her.

She stares at the door, waiting… but it stays silent, still. The wait stretches longer than it should, the quiet too thick to be innocent.

SFX: HEARTBEAT, FAINT AT FIRST
A soft thump-thump builds quietly in the background—the sound of Alexis’s heartbeat, distant at first but growing louder with each passing second.

INSERT – CLOSE-UP OF HER NECK
A small pulse flickers at the base of her throat, a subtle twitch beneath her skin, matching the steady rhythm of her heartbeat.

CLOSE-UP: ALEXIS’S EYES
Her gaze shifts nervously from the door to her phone, her pupils dilating slightly. She blinks rapidly, biting the inside of her cheek as she exhales unevenly.

The heartbeat swells, overlapping with the hum of the hallway’s air-conditioning, until —

SFX: DOOR CREAKS OPEN
The sound is soft but startling. The heartbeat abruptly stops, as though held in mid-air.

Alexis exhales, her throat tight, and shifts her notebook against her side, bracing herself.

REVERSE SHOT: DOOR OPENING
The door opens slowly, revealing HAROLD HYDE. He leans against the doorframe—posture effortless, his smile just shy of too charming. Light brown hair tousled to perfection, hazel-green eyes gleaming with both amusement and something sharper.

A silver chain glints against the open collar of his silk shirt. The subtle scent of his cologne drifts toward Alexis—warm, with a hint of spice. The scent catches her off guard, blooming in her chest like an intrusive thought she didn’t invite.

ALEXIS
(stammering)
Oh! I, uh… sorry, I… I think I might have the wrong address?

She fumbles with her phone, scrolling through her notes again, even though she knows this is the right place. The words blur on the screen—her thoughts scattering under his gaze.

Harold’s smile deepens—not predatory, but knowingly sharp. He watches her fumble like a cat toying with a bird, amused by her awkwardness.

HAROLD
No mistake, you’ve come to the right place.

He steps aside with a smooth, deliberate gesture, holding the door open just wide enough to coax her inside.

HAROLD
Come on in.

Alexis hesitates—her instincts telling her to stay put, but curiosity pulls her forward. She steps inside, brushing lightly against Harold’s arm. The brief contact leaves a warmth on her skin, one that lingers a moment too long.

The door clicks shut behind her, soft but firm—just loud enough to remind her that the way out has closed.

ALEXIS
(still a little flustered)
I’m… uh, Alexis. Alexis Lim. I’m here to see Pernilla Jacobsson… and you are?

Harold’s smile broadens—just enough to be charming, but not quite innocent. He holds out his hand, slow and deliberate, like someone who enjoys being in control of the moment.

HAROLD
Harold. Please, call me Harold.

There’s a brief pause, just long enough to make Alexis wonder if she’s supposed to recognize the name. When Harold says it, there’s a hint of pride in his voice, as if the name itself carries power or significance.

He smiles, as though letting her in on a private joke, one she doesn’t quite understand yet.

ALEXIS
(slight frown)
Oh. Well, I… don’t think I’ve heard of you before, Harold.

HAROLD
(chuckling)
Not surprised. I’m a bit of a rare breed.

The playfulness in his voice feels almost… practised, but there’s something deeper beneath it, like he’s enjoying her confusion.

ALEXIS
So… who exactly are you?

For the briefest moment, something flickers in Harold’s eyes — a flash of amusement, like he’s testing her. Then he smiles again, the expression warm and inviting, a mask perfectly in place.

HAROLD
Let’s just say I’m a relative. Came all the way from Sweden to help out, keep the place in order while Pernilla’s off… saving lives.

He gestures with a casual flourish, as if Pernilla’s work is both grand and slightly irrelevant in his eyes.

HAROLD
She’s always working, you know. Somebody has to keep things running here.

Alexis nods slowly, though something doesn’t sit right. There’s an unease she can’t quite name, but she brushes it aside, choosing politeness over instinct.

ALEXIS
(nods)
Right… That makes sense.

She shifts awkwardly, her gaze wandering toward the living room — half-curious, half-unsettled by Harold’s presence. Something about his smooth demeanour doesn’t quite match the space around them, and her discomfort lingers like a faint itch beneath her skin.

Harold, watching her closely, seems to sense this. He steps smoothly toward the sitting area, guiding the moment like a well-rehearsed dance.

HAROLD
(politely)
No need to stand around. Come, take a seat - the pleasure’s all mine.

The apartment feels like a space caught between two worlds, even while she slowly makes her way to the sofa. There are personal artefacts scattered throughout—pieces of someone’s life—but they feel slightly… off. The way things are arranged suggests that someone tried to make the place feel lived-in, but missed the small, organic touches that give a home life.

Alexis’s eyes drift over the details—a framed photograph, a stack of vinyl records, worn ballet slippers hanging neatly by the kitchen door—and a creeping unease settles into her bones. It feels like Pernilla’s life on display, carefully curated, but missing something vital. Something real.She frowns, trying to shake off the strange sense that the room itself is performing for her.

CLOSE-UP: FRAMED PHOTOGRAPH ON SIDE TABLE
The photo shows a younger Pernilla, smiling softly by a lake, the wind tousling her hair. Beneath the image, the words “Mitt hjärta” (“My heart”) are inscribed in neat, faded script. The frame sits slightly crooked, as if it was recently moved but not carefully replaced.

Alexis reaches out and tilts the frame gently, setting it straight. Her brow furrows slightly—something about the photo feels off, as if it doesn’t quite belong here.

CLOSE-UP: BOOKSHELF
On the bookshelf sits a wooden Dala horse—a small, painted figure with bright colors, its charm feeling strangely out of place among the sleek decor.

Alexis tilts her head, studying the horse. Her fingers hover just above it but she doesn’t touch it, as if afraid that moving it would break the illusion the apartment is trying to maintain.

CLOSE-UP: STACK OF CDS ON COFFEE TABLE
At the top of a neat stack of CDs lies a CD package reading: “ABBA: The Essential Collection.” The packaging looks slightly worn, suggesting it’s been played often—or at least moved around frequently. Beneath it, a few other Swedish music albums are tucked in carefully, the arrangement too deliberate, like a gesture meant to hint at sentimentality.

Alexis picks up the ABBA CD with mild curiosity, turning it over in her hands. She frowns—the placement feels staged, more like an aesthetic choice than a reflection of someone’s actual life.

She sets it back down, but it doesn’t quite sit right—the performance of care and emotion feels incomplete, like a poorly rehearsed scene.

CLOSE-UP: KITCHEN DOOR
On a small hook by the kitchen door, a pair of worn ballet slippers hangs neatly. Their frayed edges suggest years of use, but the way they’re displayed feels too careful—like an exhibit rather than a personal memento.

Alexis takes a slow step closer, brushing her sleeve over her fingers as she lightly touches the edge of the slippers. She pulls back quickly, as though sensing the disconnect between their meaning and their presentation. The way the slippers hang feels deliberate, like a ghost of something lost.

Harold notices where her gaze lands and steps casually into her line of sight, his smile deepening as if reading her thoughts. His presence fills the space effortlessly, as if he belongs here more than the objects ever could.

HAROLD
It’s strange, isn’t it? How much you can learn from the things people leave behind.

Alexis sits on the sofa and shifts uncomfortably under the weight of his words, clutching her notebook tighter against her chest. Her mind stirs — unsettled, curious, and drawn closer to him despite herself.

Trying to steady her nerves, Alexis taps her notebook lightly against her knee and musters the courage to shift the conversation toward the reason she came. She digs out a black pen from her hoodie pocket and opens the notebook.

ALEXIS
So… I read something this morning. You’ve heard the news, haven’t you? About a woman named Dr. Harrison.

At the mention of the name, Harold’s eyes flicker — a shadow of something sharp and disdainful, too fast for Alexis to fully catch. He tilts his head, his smile tightens briefly, but he smooths it over as if nothing happened.

ALEXIS
She was murdered. Pernilla worked with her, right? Thought you might know something about it.

She pulls out her phone, scrolling to the article. She holds up the phone in front of Harold — Harrison’s photo beneath the headline. Phrases like “violent attack” and “personal motive suspected” flash across the screen as she skims.

Harold shifts, leaning casually against the armrest, but his posture feels too deliberate — like a performance. There’s a flash of something cold in his expression, though his voice stays smooth.

HAROLD
Ah… Harrison.

He rolls the name on his tongue like a bitter aftertaste, his disdain leaking through despite his polished demeanour.

HAROLD
One of those people who liked to think they were more important than they really were. Pernilla tolerated her.

There’s a bite to the word “tolerated,” laced with something personal — something deeper than a professional rivalry.

ALEXIS
(pressing gently, while writing in her notebook)
Do you think… anyone would have had a reason to hurt her?

For a split second, Harold’s polished front cracks — something dark and dangerous flashes in his gaze, like a knife glinting in the light.

Then it’s gone, replaced by a smile that’s too perfect, too smooth.

HAROLD
(chuckling softly)
Oh, I wouldn’t know. The world’s full of people with reasons to hurt each other.

He leans back in his chair, relaxed but watchful.

HAROLD
But enough about dead women. It’s such a gloomy subject for a lovely afternoon.

Before Alexis can respond, Harold’s gaze drifts to her hoodie.

HAROLD
I like your hoodie. Red suits you.

His voice drops just enough to make the compliment feel personal — too personal. Alexis places her pen gently on top of her notebook and closes it. Her breath stutters for a moment—just a shallow intake, almost imperceptible—but enough to betray her discomfort.

She exhales through her nose, quiet but uneven, as if trying to steady herself without drawing attention to it. Her fingers hover briefly over the edge of the notebook, tapping once, twice, before she catches herself and goes still.

Suddenly, her vision blurs at the edges—a faint hallucination creeping in like a dream she can’t shake. For a split second, she sees it: a purple orchid in full bloom, its petals unfolding to reveal a vaginal centre, glistening with honey-like nectar. The image is vivid, intrusive—sensual and unsettling all at once. She blinks it away, but the sensation clings to her skin.

HAROLD(
sly grin)
If you'd like, you can come see me on Thursday night. Rechabite Hall, half past seven. I’m performing in a Burlesque show.

Even though she knows what burlesque is, the offer catches Alexis off guard.

ALEXIS
(confused)
So, you… perform?

HAROLD
(grinning)
Would you like a front row seat? I’ll get a ticket just for you.

His gaze holds hers, magnetic and dangerous, and Alexis feels herself slipping—drawn toward him, despite every warning in her mind.

She knows she should refuse. She knows this is the first step into dangerous territory. But something in the way he looks at her… promises more.

ALEXIS
(softly)
I’ll… think about it.

Harold’s grin is slow, triumphant—a predator’s smile, satisfied with the first taste of victory.

HAROLD
I knew you would.

As she moves toward the door, his hand brushes hers — a fleeting touch that sparks under her skin.

HAROLD
(softly)
See you there, darling.

And just like that, the first step into Harold’s world has been taken.