Maya grabs Tyrell by the hood.
Tyrell scrambles backward, slipping on ice.
Across from him, MAYA (20, tactical goggles pushed up, face wrapped in a shemagh) cleans a modified flare gun. A polar bear skull hangs from her backpack.
(doesn’t look up) Then stop cryin’ about the dark and start movin’ like you own it. The Aurora Cartel hit the research station last week. They got heat packs, protein paste, and a generator that ain't from the Stone Age. Da Hood Arctic Script
Maya slowly raises the flare gun. Her eyes go cold—colder than the air.
Now we run.
(whisper) Tell me that’s just the wind. Maya grabs Tyrell by the hood
(calm) This ain’t the hood, Ty. You don't run. You stand on business.
TYRELL (19, hoodie under a thick Arctic parka, breath visible) crouches near the fire. He’s counting frozen bread rolls like they’re gold bricks.
Suddenly, a CRUNCH. Heavy footsteps on permafrost. Then a low, guttural GROWL—not human, not wolf. Something bigger. A polar bear skull hangs from her backpack
Shoot it! Shoot it, Maya!
The wall of the warehouse EXPLODES inward. A massive polar bear, scarred and starving, lunges through the gap. Its breath steams like a locomotive.