A man walks into a police station to report a murder. His own. Frank Bigelow has been slipped a luminous poison and the doctors give him days, maybe hours, so he tears through San Francisco and L.A. hunting the bastard who killed him before his own body cashes out. Maté shoots the chase like a fever, O'Brien sweating bullets through neon-soaked streets, a jazz dive screaming around him. The greatest hook in noir history, sprinting on a corpse's clock. Every frame ticks. Watch a dead man run for an answer he won't live to use.