The room is dimly lit, bathed in the warm, amber glow of a bedside lamp. Silk sheets are tangled on a king-sized bed that dominates the space. Shadows stretch long across the floor, interrupted only by the rhythmic pulse of a city skyline flickering through the tall glass windows.
On the bed, a woman in her late 30s, beautiful and still, lies motionless. Her body is half-covered by the sheet, one bare arm dangling off the side of the mattress. Her face is peacefulâserene, almost as if sheâs simply asleep. But thereâs a stillness to her chest, an absence of breath that reveals the truth.
The camera slowly dollies in, tracking across the scattered remnants of intimacyâa champagne bottle tipped over on the nightstand, two glasses, one half full. A red dress crumpled on the floor, heels kicked into the corner.
There is a quiet drip⌠drip⌠drip sound from the bathroom nearby. The faucet is leaking, the water’s gentle rhythm underscoring the heavy silence.
The camera shifts, framing a man standing at the edge of the room, naked except for a robe hanging loosely off his shoulders. His back is turned to the camera. Heâs still, frozen in disbelief, staring at the woman on the bed. His chest rises and fallsâshallow, ragged breaths.
He steps forward, hesitant. Each step creaks against the hardwood. He kneels beside the bed, gently touches her shoulder. No response. He calls her name softlyâbut it’s barely audible.
Extreme close-up: His hand on her wrist, searching for a pulse. Nothing.
His face twistsâgrief? Panic? Guilt? The emotion is unreadable, but raw. His fingers begin to tremble. He pulls a phone from the dresser, his hands shaking so much he fumbles with the screen.
Cut to a close-up of the screen as he dials 911.
MAN (V.O.) (voice cracking) IâI think she’s dead…
As the call connects, the camera pulls back, rising slowly, leaving the man hunched over the bed, one hand clinging to the woman’s lifeless arm.
The music swellsâlow strings, somber, as the city lights flicker outside, indifferent.
