A Script for The Silver Spoon Drop

INT. AURUM LODGE DINING HALL - NIGHT

SOUND of a BLIZZARD HOWLING, a low, vibrating hum against massive floor-to-ceiling windows.

Outside, the Swiss Alps are jagged teeth of grey and white.

Inside, the room is a bubble of golden light. Polished silver, dark wood, velvet curtains. Deceptively warm.

AT THE KID TABLE

LEN (12), anxious and trapped in a suit two sizes too big, stares into a bowl of tomato soup. He tugs at his starched collar.

CLOSE ON - THE SOUP

A single crouton floats in the red abyss. A tiny, drowning raft.

Len’s focus isn’t on the soup. It’s on a MAN moving between tables. The WAITER (40s, tall, moves too fast).

Len watches the Waiter pour water for a nearby table. He’s smooth, efficient, except for one detail.

ANGLE ON THE WAITER'S FEET

Scuffed brown loafers. A jarring contrast to the pristine black tuxedo.

Len’s knuckles turn white as he grips his spoon.

ACROSS THE TABLE

SAMANTHA (12), poised and severe in a navy dress, watches him. Her hair is pulled back so tight it looks painful. She cuts a bread roll with surgical precision.

<center>SAMANTHA</center>

> You're not eating.

Len looks up, startled.

<center>LEN</center>

> Not hungry.

He drops his gaze back to the crouton.

<center>SAMANTHA</center>

> The chef will be offended. It's a local specialty. Very... rich.

She says "rich" like it's a diagnosis. A test.

Len glances toward the main table in the center of the room. His FATHER (50s, charismatic diplomat) laughs at something the FRENCH AMBASSADOR says. They are relaxed. Oblivious.

Len’s eyes flick back to the Waiter, now hovering near the kitchen doors, his hand twitching by his side.

<center>LEN</center>

> I think it's sour. Like it's gone bad.

Samantha pauses. Her knife hovers over a pat of butter. Her dark eyes dart from Len's face, to his bowl, then—for a fraction of a second—to the Waiter.

She sees it too.

<center>SAMANTHA</center>

> (a whisper)

> Sometimes, things spoil when they sit out too long. You have to clear the table before it makes everyone sick.

Len’s heart thumps. She knows.

<center>LEN</center>

> I need to tell the chef. About the... sourness.

<center>SAMANTHA</center>

> (sharp, low)

> Don't. The kitchen is busy. You'll get in the way. Besides...

She picks up her water glass, taking a slow sip.

<center>SAMANTHA</center>

> (CONT'D)

> ...the maitre d' is watching.

Len freezes. He slowly turns his head.

Across the room, by the entrance podium, the MAITRE D' (60s, bald, face like a crumpled napkin) isn't looking at the guests. He's looking directly at Len.

This is bad. Red Bag bad.

<center>LEN</center>

> (voice cracking)

> Pass the salt.

Samantha slides a heavy silver shaker across the tablecloth. It makes a harsh SCRAPING sound.

<center>SAMANTHA</center>

> My father says too much salt is bad for the heart. It can stop it. Just like that.

She SNAPS her fingers. The sound is swallowed by the room's heavy silence.

<center>LEN</center>

> My heart is fine. I just need... to make it safe.

The Waiter is moving again. He picks up a fresh, uncorked bottle of red wine. He’s heading for the main table.

A bead of sweat trickles down Len's back.

<center>LEN</center>

> (suddenly)

> Did you bring the game? The Switch?

<center>SAMANTHA</center>

> What?

<center>LEN</center>

> I'm bored. Can I see it? Now.

Samantha narrows her eyes, understanding. She reaches down beside her chair and pulls up a small velvet purse.

She doesn't take out a game console. She takes out a silver compact mirror. She sets it on the table, angling the glass.

<center>SAMANTHA</center>

> I don't have the game. But you can look at the... graphics.

Len leans over, pretending to look at a screen.

IN THE REFLECTION

The room behind him is perfectly framed. He sees his father's back. He sees the Waiter approaching. The Waiter holds the wine bottle by the neck, like a club.

<center>LEN</center>

> (whispering)

> The graphics look... glitchy.

<center>SAMANTHA</center>

> Very glitchy.

Samantha picks up a bread roll and rips it in half. A violent, deliberate motion. She pulls out the soft dough from the center.

<center>SAMANTHA</center>

> (CONT'D)

> You should go fix it.

<center>LEN</center>

> I can't. The maitre d'.

<center>SAMANTHA</center>

> He's looking at the window now. Checking the snow. You have three seconds. Maybe four.

Len looks. The Maitre d' has turned his head to frown at the blizzard. It’s a micro-window.

Len grabs his napkin, bunching it in his left hand. He stands. The chair legs SQUEAL against the parquet floor.

A few heads turn. His father doesn't.

<center>LEN</center>

> (loudly, to no one)

> Bathroom.

He walks straight, aiming for the gap between the tables. He walks fast, not a run. A desperate "I have to pee" walk.

The Waiter is three steps from his father. Two steps.

As he passes the Waiter, Len doesn't dodge. He STUMBLES. He lets his foot catch the edge of the thick Persian rug.

He goes down HARD.

His flailing left hand—the one with the napkin—SLAMS into the back of the Waiter's knee.

It's clumsy. Awkward. But it works.

The Waiter's leg buckles. He lurches forward, losing his balance. The wine bottle flies from his grip.

It SMASHES on the table. Red wine explodes across the white cloth, splashing the French Ambassador's shirt, dripping from the centerpiece flowers like blood.

The room goes dead silent.

SOUND of wine DRIPPING onto the floor. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Len lies on the floor, his knee throbbing. He looks up. The Waiter stares down at him, his face a terrifying blank. The Waiter's hand reaches inside his tuxedo jacket.

<center>FATHER (O.S.)</center>

> Len!

Len scrambles backward across the rug.

<center>LEN</center>

> (gasping)

> I tripped... the rug... I tripped!

Two large SECURITY GUARDS in grey suits step from the shadows. They move toward Len.

The Waiter pulls his hand from his jacket. He holds a white handkerchief, not a weapon. His voice is smooth, accented.

<center>WAITER</center>

> I am so sorry, sir.

He dabs at the stain. As he bends, his jacket falls open.

For a split second, Len sees it. Tucked into the waistband of his trousers, at the small of his back: the black, rubberized handle of a large knife.

Len's eyes shoot to Samantha. She's still at the kid table, holding her torn bread roll. She gives a tiny, almost invisible nod.

<center>FRENCH AMBASSADOR</center>

> (grumbling)

> Clumsy boy. No harm done. Just a waste of a good vintage.

<center>WAITER</center>

> I'll get a fresh bottle immediately.

> (to Len)

> And perhaps a towel for the young man.

<center>FATHER</center>

> Len, go get cleaned up. We'll discuss this later.

<center>LEN</center>

> But Dad—

<center>FATHER</center>

> Now, Len.

Len scrambles to his feet and retreats to the kid table, slumping into his chair. The Waiter walks back toward the kitchen.

<center>SAMANTHA</center>

> (murmuring)

> Nice trip.

<center>LEN</center>

> (whispering)

> He has a knife. In his back. A big one.

<center>SAMANTHA</center>

> I know. And the maitre d' just locked the front doors.

Len whips his head around. The Maitre d' is turning the brass lock on the main double doors. He slides the bolt home with a heavy THUNK.

<center>LEN</center>

> Why?

<center>SAMANTHA</center>

> Because nobody leaves until dessert.

She pushes her plate toward him. On the edge of the porcelain, hidden under a sprig of parsley, is a small, silver KEY.

<center>LEN</center>

> What is this?

<center>SAMANTHA</center>

> My dad dropped it. By accident. Or maybe not. I think it opens the pantry. The one that connects to the tunnels.

<center>LEN</center>

> Tunnels? We can't leave them.

He looks at his father, laughing again, oblivious.

<center>SAMANTHA</center>

> We aren't leaving. We're going to pull the fire alarm. But the alarm is in the kitchen. Where he is.

She nods toward the swinging doors where the Waiter disappeared.

<center>LEN</center>

> I'm fast. I'm the fastest runner in my grade.

<center>SAMANTHA</center>

> Good.

The grand chandeliers FLICKER. Once. Twice.

They dim, just a fraction.

The entire room seems to hold its breath.

<center>SAMANTHA</center>

> (CONT'D)

> Because I think he's coming back. And he's not bringing wine this time.