INT. LIBRARY - CIRCULATION DESK - NIGHT
Darkness. Absolute and heavy.
A HIGH-PITCHED WHINE drills through the silence. Beneath it, the wet, rhythmic sound of COUGHING.
THEO GARRICK (38) gasps. His eyes snap open.
A single emergency floodlight on a tripod blasts harsh, white glare from behind a standing figure. The figure is a silhouette, edges blazing with a corona of light.
Theo lies on a hard, polished wooden surface. He squints against the blinding light. His chest heaves. Sweat beads on his forehead.
The Silhouette leans in. An arm extends. Metal glints in its hand.
Theo’s eyes widen. He scrambles backward, his limbs heavy.
No.
He swings his left arm in a blind, clumsy arc.
His knuckles collide with the metal tool. A TRAY of instruments crashes to the laminate floor. CLATTER. SCATTER. ECHO.
The Silhouette recoils.
Hold him!
The First Medic (30) is not a soldier. She wears a cheap paper mask and a stained beanie.
Hands grab Theo from the darkness. They pin his legs. A strap is cinched tight around his left wrist. Another around his ankle.
Theo thrashes. He screams—a raw, ragged sound.
Then, he stops. He blinks, the adrenaline fading into a cold wash of clarity.
The ceiling above him is not a cell. It is high, ornate, and peeling. The smell of old paper and dust mixes with antiseptic.
He is on a circulation desk. The wood is scarred.
The First Medic uses tongs to pick up the fallen instruments from the dirty floor. She shakes her head.
Movement at the periphery. A gurney rattles into the light.
MINA KOVIC (45) steers it. She wears a heavy winter coat over scrubs. Her face is hard, eyes sunken.
On the gurney lies a WOUNDED FIGHTER (20). Pale. Slick with sweat. A dark stain spreads rapidly across the filthy blanket on his chest.
Mina pulls the blanket back. The abdomen is a ruin of shredded flesh.
Pressure is bottoming out. Lost too much.
Saline?
Last bag.
The First Medic holds up a solitary clear plastic pouch.
Mina looks at the IV stand. Then, her gaze shifts past the fighter.
A CHILD (8) lies on a cot pushed against a bookshelf. Her skin is papery. She shivers violently.
Mina reaches into her pocket. She pulls out a thick black marker.
She uncaps it.
Without hesitation, Mina draws a large, dark 'X' on the Wounded Fighter’s forehead.
The Fighter sees it. His eyes widen. He makes a choked, gurgling sound.
Mina turns to the First Medic.
Her. Full drip. We need to get her core temperature up.
The First Medic hesitates. She looks at the dying boy, then the girl.
Mina does not blink. The First Medic lowers her head and moves to the child.
Theo stares. His jaw works. He pulls against the leather strap on his wrist.
You can't...
He swings his legs over the side of the desk. His bare feet hit the grit.
He tries to stand. His knees buckle instantly.
Theo crashes forward. He lands in the narrow space between the fighter and the child.
His hand slaps into a tray of fresh white gauze. A smear of dirt and blood transfers from his palm to the pristine bandages.
Mina is at the child's side, adjusting the drip. She doesn't turn around.
My badge. I'm press. International Press Corps.
Theo fumbles at his collar. He pulls a lanyard free. A plastic card dangles.
You have to save him. It's the law. Geneva...
Mina finishes the adjustment. She turns slowly.
She looks at the badge. She looks at Theo.
She steps forward. Fast.
Mina grabs Theo’s left wrist. She twists it back. Hard.
Theo cries out. His fingers spasm. The badge CLATTERS to the floor.
Here, this is just plastic. It doesn't clot blood. It doesn't fight infection. It is a useless object.
She tightens her grip, forcing him to look at her.
And you are a contamination vector. You are a drain on resources.
A long, wet RATTLE comes from the gurney.
Silence follows. The Wounded Fighter stares fixedly at the peeling ceiling.
Mina releases Theo’s wrist. She peels off her gloves.
Get him out of my triage.
INT. LIBRARY STACKS - MOMENTS LATER
Two handlers drag Theo by the armpits. His feet scuff through dust.
They turn a corner. An aisle marked 'ROMANCE'.
They dump him. Theo hits the cold concrete. THUD.
The handlers retreat. Their footsteps fade.
Theo is alone. The aisle is narrow, lined with metal shelves packed with swelling paperbacks.
Condensation drips from above. TAP. TAP. TAP.
Theo shivers. He reaches out. He pulls a handful of books from the bottom shelf. Garish covers of swooning lovers.
He piles them on the floor. A bed of paper.
He curls up on top of them, pulling more books over his body like a blanket.
STATIC crackles overhead.
A POP echoes from a ceiling speaker.
Music blasts out. Loud. Distorted.
It is K-POP. Aggressively cheerful. Synthesized beats and auto-tuned vocals scream through the gloom.
Theo flinches. He covers his ears with his hands.
The music does not stop. It reverberates through the metal shelves, through the floor, through the books.
Theo curls tighter into a ball, shaking beneath the weight of the ruined love stories.