INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT
A cheap, hollow-core door GROANS under pressure. It bows in the frame but holds fast.
For Christ’s sake, Ben, are you gonna push or just stand there?
BEN (20), slight build, sweat-dampened hair plastered to his forehead, slams his shoulder into the wood.
He grunts. Heaves. Once more.
The latch gives.
INT. ACTIVIST OFFICE - NIGHT
Ben stumbles in. A WALL OF NOISE hits him instantly—thumping bass, a hundred shouting voices, the CLINK of glass.
The air is thick. Hazy. It smells of enclosed humanity and cheap beer.
A hand SLAPS Ben’s back.
He’s in! The man of the hour!
Ben forces a grin. He navigates the crush, squeezing past bodies fueled by manic, electric energy.
IN THE CORNER
A laptop perches precariously on a stack of books. The screen glows like a beacon in the dim room.
Ben collapses into a worn chair. It SIGHS under him. He swipes a few empty bottles aside.
ON THE SCREEN
A fundraising page. A photo of a smiling nurse. Below it, green digits flicker and climb.
$87,451.
$87,493.
$87,513.
Ben stares. His chest rises and falls rapidly. He is motionless amidst the chaos.
A NOTIFICATION pops up. A Direct Message.
Ben clicks it.
TEXT: *I don’t know what to say. We’ve been crying all day. But seeing this… seeing that people see her. Not as a headline, but as my sister. Thank you. You have given us a space to breathe.*
Ben reads it. He leans back. The noise of the room seems to dampen. He closes his eyes, exhaling a long, shaky breath.
There he is.
Ben opens his eyes.
RYAN (25) stands over him. Plastic cup in hand. Easy, magnetic smile. He radiates a calm that anchors the room.
Ryan nods at the screen.
Almost ninety K, kid. You broke the internet.
It’s insane.
Believe it.
Ryan sips his beer. His eyes scan the room—calculating, sharp—before locking back onto Ben.
You gave people a way to fight back that didn’t involve getting their skulls cracked. That’s powerful.
Ryan leans in. He lowers his voice below the thrum of the music.
We need to move that. Soon. An account that big draws eyes.
I was going to transfer it to Sofia’s account tonight.
Ryan shakes his head. Slow. Thoughtful.
Not directly. Not a lump sum. That’s a flag for the Feds. They’ll freeze it before she buys groceries. Call it ‘funding criminal elements.’
Ben stiffens. He looks at the screen. The climbing numbers.
So what do we do?
We clean it. Standard procedure. Bounce it through a mixer. Convert to Monero, break it up. Untraceable. Safe.
Ben hesitates. He looks at Ryan’s steady gaze.
Can you show me?
Ryan pulls out his phone. Taps the screen. Reveals a QR CODE.
Dedicated transfer account. Send the full balance. I’ll handle the rest. Piece by piece, clean as a whistle.
Ryan claps a hand on Ben’s shoulder. Firm. Reassuring.
You did the hard part, Ben. You gave them hope. Let me protect it.
Ryan turns and vanishes into the crowd.
Ben stares at the QR code on the phone in his hand.
EXT. CAMPUS - NIGHT
Silence.
The sky is a bruised purple.
Ben walks alone. The party is a distant memory.
INT. DORM ROOM - NIGHT
Dark. Cold.
A single DESK LAMP casts a yellow, intimate pool of light.
Ben sits. Fingers hover over the keyboard.
ON THE LAPTOP SCREEN
Fundraiser Total: $92,114.
Ben navigates to the withdrawal page.
He holds up his phone. Scans the QR code from the text message.
A long alphanumeric string fills the destination field.
Ben checks it. Checks it again.
He clicks ‘CONFIRM TRANSFER’.
A GREEN CHECKMARK appears.
Your withdrawal has been initiated.
Ben leans back. A shuddering sigh escapes him. Shoulders drop.
MOMENTS LATER
Ben hits refresh.
The dashboard loads.
Balance: $0.00.
Ben clicks ‘Transaction History’.
A single entry.
Status: COMPLETED.
Ben frowns. He leans closer to the screen. The blue light reflects in his eyes.
He pulls out his phone. Dials.
It RINGS. And RINGS. And RINGS.
Hey, it’s Ryan. Leave a message.
Ryan, it’s Ben. The transfer went through. It… it was instant. Just checking in. Call me.
Ben hangs up. Types a text.
TEXT: *Hey, transfer complete. All good?*
DELIVERED.
Ben watches the screen. The little blue checkmarks sit there.
Unread.
He dials again.
Straight to voicemail.
The silence of the room presses in. The only sound is the HUM of the mini-fridge.
The phone BUZZES in Ben’s hand.
He fumbles it. Catches it.
NEWS ALERT: BREAKING: FIRE REPORTED AT MARK O. HATFIELD FEDERAL COURTHOUSE.
Ben stares. His thumb hovers, trembling.
He clicks the link.
ON THE PHONE SCREEN
Live footage. Blurry. ORANGE FLAMES lick the stone facade of a massive building. Smoke billows into the night.
Ben scrolls down. Stops at the bottom paragraph.
TEXT: *...message decries federal overreach... “This was a warning. Our work tonight was funded entirely by the generous donations of a supportive community...”*
Ben lowers the phone.
He looks at his laptop. The empty balance.
$0.00.
Outside the window, a SIREN wails.
It isn't passing by.
The sound grows louder. Closer.
Ben sits in the yellow pool of light. He does not move.
The BLUE AND RED lights from the street below begin to flash against the dorm room ceiling.