INT. CLINIC WAITING AREA - DAY
RAE (40s), skin pale and eyes bruised with purple shadows, stares at a white plastic cup. Her hands tremble in a high-frequency rhythm.
YURI (21), hollow-eyed and wearing a heavy black hoodie, slouches in a vinyl chair. The chair emits a sharp SQUEAK as he shifts his weight.
Outside the massive plate-glass window, spring trees erupt in thick green leaves. Yellow pollen smears the glass like chalk dust.
Inside, the air conditioning hums at sixty-two degrees. The room smells of hospital-grade sanitizer and artificial vanilla.
RAE
Don't.
YURI
Yuri. Stop.
RAE
You're making a mistake. You know you are.
RAE
It's just data.
YURI
It's not just data. It's him.
RAE
It is a predictive language model attached to a biometric ghost, Yuri. It is code.
YURI
It sounds like him. It thinks like him.
RAE
It isn't him.
RAE stares into the dark brown liquid in her cup. She does not drink.
YURI stares at his phone. The screen is cracked diagonally. A notification bubble hovers over a contact named 'Dad'.
YURI
Yeah. Defense fell apart in the fourth.
Three grey dots appear on the screen. The algorithm is typing.
YURI
They need a new coordinator. Anyway, you eating today? Go get a burger. On me.
A micro-transfer notification flashes on the screen. YURI swallows hard. His chest tightens.
RAE
He texted you just now, didn't he?
YURI locks his phone and slides it face down.
YURI
No.
RAE
Don't lie to me, Yuri. I can see your face.
YURI
Mind your business, mom.
RAE
It's a machine. It's playing you.
YURI
It's his money. It's his words. He wanted this.
RAE
He didn't know what it would be like. He didn't sign up to haunt us.
RAE grips the plastic cup. The coffee is cold.
INT. CLINIC WAITING AREA - CONTINUOUS
RAE
I can't do it anymore.
YURI
Then turn off your notifications. Delete the app.
RAE
The Continuity Protocol is embedded at the root level. The only way to stop it is a biometric wipe.
YURI
So you're just going to erase him.
RAE
I am not erasing him. I am turning off a defective program.
YURI
You're erasing his digital legacy. If you wipe it, it's gone.
RAE
He is already gone, Yuri!
RAE shouts. The sound bounces off the sterile acoustic tiles. A woman nearby weeps into a napkin.
RAE
I cannot keep seeing his ghost in my feed, Jules. The algorithm will not let him die.
YURI freezes. The color drains from his cheeks.
YURI
You called me Jules.
RAE
It was a slip. I'm just tired.
YURI
You want to wipe the feed because you can't stand looking at me either?
YURI
Am I a ghost too, Mom?
TEARS track down YURI's face. He does not wipe them away.
YURI
You just want a clean slate. You want to pretend he never existed.
RAE
That is incredibly unfair.
YURI
You hate that I still talk to him.
RAE
I hate that you are sitting in a dark room letting a predictive text generator raise you.
YURI
If you sign that wipe order, it breaks the family link. You're killing him again.
A soft CHIME echoes. A monitor above the steel kiosk flickers.
RAE JULES - PROCEDURE ROOM 4
RAE stands. Her knees POP. She walks toward the heavy, soundproof door.
- The door slides open with a PNEUMATIC HISS.
- RAE steps inside.
- The door clicks shut.
YURI sits alone. He taps his phone screen.
*Dad: Where did Mom go?*
Three grey dots appear. They dance. One, two, three.
They vanish. The screen remains blank. The silence in the room deepens.
