It’s 98 degrees in Los Angeles, and the air conditioning in your car has just died. You’re William Foster—engineer, father, ex-husband—stuck in gridlock with a briefcase full of sandwiches and a head full of static. You step out onto the asphalt, leaving the car behind, and start walking.

At a convenience store, you ask for change for a phone call. The owner refuses, citing prices you can’t believe. You argue. He grabs a bat. You take it from him and smash the shelves, then pay for a soda like nothing happened.

Later, on a hillside, two gang members corner you, demanding your briefcase. You fight back with the bat, take their knife. When they return in a car, firing an Uzi, you survive the hail of bullets, kill one, and walk away with their weapons.

You give your briefcase to a panhandler—it only has lunch inside. At a fast food joint, they won’t serve breakfast. You pull a gun, fire into the ceiling. You get your burger. It looks nothing like the picture.

Now you’re at a payphone, trying to call your daughter for her birthday. A man shoves you, demanding his turn. You draw your weapon. Shots ring out. You dial again. 'I’m coming, Adele,' you say. Your ex-wife hangs up and calls the police.

Sgt. Prendergast is watching. He remembers you from the traffic jam. He knows this isn’t random. He’s coming.