SOUND of a fierce spring storm -- rain lashing against glass.
A cavernous space in Winnipeg's Exchange District. Exposed brick walls climb into darkness. Pools of amber light from the streetlamps outside fracture through tall, rain-streaked industrial windows.
The room is a chaotic aftermath. Mood boards covered in newspaper clippings and yarn lean against walls. Stacks of surveys and empty coffee cups litter a massive drafting table.
In the shadows, near the grated door of a freight elevator, SIMON (40s, meticulous, his anxiety barely contained) watches.
His focus is across the room: GEORGE (40s, charismatic, radiating a restless energy). George stands at the drafting table, wiping charcoal dust from his forearms with a rag. The act is simple, mundane, but Simon watches with an unnerving intensity.
The silence between them is heavy, charged.
Finally, Simon speaks. His voice is a rough scrape.
George doesn't look up. He carefully organizes a stack of surveys, his movements precise.
George pauses. He sets the papers down. Turns. His eyes are sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses.
He crosses the concrete floor, his steps deliberate, closing the distance until he stands directly in front of Simon, invading his personal space. Simon holds his ground, but a muscle in his jaw tightens.
Simon gestures with his chin toward the chaotic mood boards.
George leans in, planting a hand on the brick wall next to Simon's head. He's close enough for Simon to feel the heat coming off him.
Simon's eyes flicker to George's hand on the wall, then up to his mouth. The air crackles.
George shifts, stepping closer still. His knee brushes Simon's thigh.
Simon's professional resolve is visibly crumbling under the intellectual and physical pressure.
George’s gaze drops to Simon’s lips for a charged beat, then snaps back to his eyes. The moment hangs, electric. Then George breaks it.
The romantic tension curdles. Simon stiffens, cold dread washing over his face.
George pulls a crumpled, folded MAP from his back pocket.
He unfolds it directly against Simon's chest, pinning him against the brick wall. Simon is trapped.
George's finger traces a red-inked line snaking through the downtown core on the map.
Simon stares down at the map pressed against him. The terrifying implication sinks in. This isn't a youth project anymore. It's evidence.
He looks up, his mouth opening to speak, to warn George--
SOUND of a heavy, metallic GROAN.
Across the studio, the massive steel door at the far end of the room CREAKS OPEN, spilling a sliver of dark hallway into the room.
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