FADE IN: EXT. SPRING STREET, DOWNTOWN LOS ANGELES, 8:52 AM Rain on the facade of a 1927 art deco building. The lettering above the entrance reads BRADBURY ANNEX. The name has faded in the way that names fade on buildings no one has bothered to reletter since 1983. A tan Mercedes sedan pulls up. 1999 E class, the kind with leather seats that have cracked in the same three places in three different cars. The driver cuts the engine. Sits a beat. Gets out without the umbrella on the passenger seat. JACK MORRISON (62) crosses the sidewalk with the ease of a man who has walked this block four thousand times. He is tall, not heavy, wearing a tan trench coat that has been his coat for eleven years. His hair is grey. His hands are a mechanic's hands and have never been a mechanic's. A left cuff button is missing. He does not notice. JACK (V.O.) You can tell the age of a building by its lobby. The oldest ones smell like brass polish. The newer ones smell like whichever coffee the property manager has delivered that week. The Bradbury Annex smelled like the past, which meant the rent was still reasonable, which meant I was still in business. INT. BRADBURY ANNEX, LOBBY AND STAIRCASE, 8:54 AM Marble floor. Brass mail boxes. A directory on the wall. Jack crosses to the elevator. The elevator is out of order. The sign has been taped to the door for three weeks.