SOUND of the tram's low RATTLE and the HUM of electrics
A cold, sterile space. Blue-grey light from the city filters through slush-streaked windows.
ANDREW (40s), weary, his face etched with a quiet sorrow, grips a polished metal pole. His breath plumes in the frigid air.
The other PASSENGERS are islands of isolation, faces illuminated by the cold glow of their screens or lost in blank stares. No one makes eye contact.
A WOMAN (late 20s) struggles to hoist a bulky canvas bag onto an overhead rack. She grunts with effort. The bag slips.
It nearly strikes a MAN (50s, severe) seated below. He snaps his head up, his face a mask of theatrical indignation.
The Woman flushes, stammering.
The Man returns to his device, dismissing her. Defeated, the Woman wedges the bag precariously at her feet.
Andrew watches the exchange. His fingers twitch on the pole, an aborted gesture of assistance. He clenches his fist, knuckles white. The moment passes.
SOUND of a distant TRAM SIGHING away, then the lonely WHISTLE of wind
Andrew steps off the tram onto a snow-dusted sidewalk. The air is sharp, biting. Streetlights cast long, shivering shadows. Patches of treacherous black ice gleam in the dim light.
Up ahead, an ELDERLY MAN (70s), frail and stooped, shuffles carefully, his cane tapping an uncertain rhythm.
Andrew watches, a knot of anxiety tightening in his chest.
The Elderly Man’s foot slips.
His arms windmill wildly. A desperate, silent ballet. He collapses with a sickening THUD onto the ice. His cane skitters away, CLATTERING against a lamppost.
Andrew surges forward, instinct taking over. He takes two steps, then freezes.
Three figures emerge from the mouth of a dark alley. A PONYTAIL WOMAN (30s), and two MEN (20s). They don't move toward the fallen man.
They raise their smartphones.
The cold light from their screens illuminates their faces—expressions of detached, clinical curiosity. The Ponytail Woman allows a small, almost imperceptible smirk.
The Elderly Man groans on the pavement, his breath ragged.
Andrew pushes through a suffocating inertia, his own movements feeling clumsy, archaic.
The three VIDEOGRAPHERS barely register him. Their lenses remain fixed on the man on the ground.
Andrew kneels. The Elderly Man clutches his hip, his face pale and contorted in pain.
Andrew helps him sit up, propping him against the frigid lamppost. He retrieves the cane.
The Elderly Man tries. A sharp GASP of pain.
The Ponytail Woman speaks, her phone still recording. Her voice is flat, a pronouncement.
Her companions nod in silent, solemn agreement. Andrew stares at her, dumbfounded.
The Ponytail Woman deliberately lowers her phone. Her eyes are cold, devoid of warmth.
The other two Videographers adjust their angles, their phones now capturing Andrew’s face. He feels profoundly isolated, a specimen under a microscope.
He ignores them. He spots an AUTONOMOUS TAXI gliding down the street, its tinted windows like unblinking eyes. He hails it.
The taxi pulls silently to the curb.
Andrew helps the groaning Elderly Man inside.
Andrew ignores the AI. He closes the door. The taxi glides away into the night.
He turns. The three Videographers are gone. Vanished back into the shadows.
He is left alone on the desolate street. The air feels colder than before.
SOUND of the wind HOWLING outside, muted by concrete walls
A brutalist, sterile space. Cold marble floors, harsh white light. The elevator doors are dark, unresponsive.
BEATTA (40s) stands waiting. Platinum bob, dark tailored coat, posture ramrod straight. She is the picture of crisp, professional detachment.
She turns as Andrew enters. Her expression is cool, analytical.
Beatta’s face is a perfect mask of polite inquiry.
Her lips, a stark matte red, tighten almost imperceptibly.
She glances at a thin smart-display on her wrist.
She turns toward the heavy fire escape door. She pushes the bar, the door GROANING in protest. She hesitates, turning back. Her expression hardens.
She gives a final, precise nod and disappears through the door.
SOUND of her brisk footsteps ascending the metal stairs, echoing, then fading.
Andrew stands alone in the silent, frigid lobby. The words "social credit score" hang in the air. The existential chill is absolute.
Then, a new sound.
Faint. Insistent.
SOUND: A soft, rhythmic SCRATCHING. A scrape... scrape... scrape...
It comes from behind the bank of dead elevators.
It’s not mechanical. It sounds organic. Like claws against metal, trying to get out.
CLOSE ON ANDREW
His breath hitches. His eyes are wide, fixed on the elevator doors. The cold dread on his face is no longer existential. It is immediate. It is real.
FADE TO BLACK.
Share This Script
