INT. APARTMENT - BEDROOM - DAY
Frost patterns web across the windowpane. Outside, an oak tree claws at a sky the color of wet ash.
RAY (22), pale features drawn tight, presses his forehead against the freezing glass. He doesn't flinch.
The radiator in the corner shudders. THUNK-HISS. A mechanical gasp.
On the windowsill, a phone buzzes against the painted wood. VRRRT. VRRRT.
Ray stares at it. The screen is fractured at the corner. Light pulses from the crack. Notification after notification stacks up.
He doesn't touch it.
INT. LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS
The air is stale. Recycled heat.
MOM (50s) stands at the counter, humming a sanitized 90s pop song. The coffee grinder SHRIEKS, drowning her out.
DAD (50s) sits in the armchair, rustling a newspaper.
DAD
Ray stands in the doorway. The silence underneath the noise is heavy.
The TV screen FLICKERS.
The jagged SCREECH of the Emergency Alert System tears through the room. BEEEEP. BEEEEP.
Mom stops humming. Dad lowers the paper.
A red banner wipes across the screen: PRESIDENTIAL ADDRESS / SPECIAL OPERATION / CARACAS.
The feed cuts to THE PRESIDENT (50s). He stands behind the Oval Office desk, knuckles white on the mahogany.
PRESIDENT
INT. RAY'S BEDROOM - LATER
Ray sits on the edge of the bed. The blue light of the phone illuminates his face.
ON THE SCREEN:
Vertical video. Shaky. Miami. A sea of yellow, blue, and red flags. People weeping. A woman screams at the sky in joy.
Ray swipes up.
GROUP CHAT:
Jaden: "This is disgusting. Imperialism in 2024. Literally shaking."
Marie: "My aunt in Toronto is posting about U.S. aggression. It's terrifying."
Ray types: "But the people there are happy?"
He stares at the cursor. Backspaces. Deletes the text.
EXT. SUBURBAN STREET - DAY
The wind is a physical assault. It whips around the corners of cookie-cutter houses.
Ray walks, chin tucked into his collar. Hands jammed deep in pockets.
In the distance, SIRENS wail. A rising and falling contour that weaves into the wind.
EXT. COMMERCIAL STRIP - CONTINUOUS
A row of dying businesses anchored by a vape shop.
Fifty people gather on the sidewalk. Breath plumes in the cold air. They hold hastily made signs: "HANDS OFF VENEZUELA" and "NO BLOOD FOR OIL."
MR. HENDERSON (50s), wearing a thick wool scarf, shouts into a megaphone.
MR. HENDERSON
Ray leans against a brick wall. He pulls out his phone.
ON THE SCREEN:
Livestream from Caracas. A crowd stomps on a poster of the dictator's face. A woman holds a sign: "THANK YOU USA."
Ray looks up at Mr. Henderson. Henderson's face is red, veins bulging.
MARIE (22) stands at the edge of the protest. She holds a folded sign. She spots Ray.
MARIE
She walks over, boots crunching on salt.
MARIE
Ray doesn't move toward her.
RAY
MARIE
RAY
Marie's expression hardens. She shifts her grip on the sign.
MARIE
Ray steps back. The chant from the crowd swells.
RAY
MARIE
Ray turns and walks away. The wind swallows her voice.
EXT. HIGHWAY OVERPASS - DUSK
The sky is a bruise turning to black.
Below, cars rush by. Streaks of red and white light.
Ray sits on the rusted guardrail. The metal is freezing against his jeans.
He opens a text interface on his phone. An old-school forum. The cursor blinks in the gray void.
He types: "Anyone else think it's insane we're protesting this while Venezuelans celebrate?"
He hits ENTER.
The wind howls through the transmission towers above. The wires sing a discordant song.
A notification pops up.
USER_7734: "It’s luxury. We value our clean hands more than their full bellies."
Ray lets out a breath. A cloud of steam escapes his lips and dissipates instantly.
He slides the phone into his pocket.
He stands up. Below him, the traffic flows on, indifferent.