Dim blue light leaks through cheap blinds.
KYLE ANDEZ (19), lean, athletic, restless even when still, paces the small apartment barefoot, phone pressed to his ear.
A half-packed BACKPACK sits on the couch.
Running shoes by the door.
KYLE (on phone, playful):
“Yeah—yeah, I know. I’m coming.
I just have to put my shoes on and I’m out the door.”
His smile is small, distracted, already half somewhere else.
LOLITA (18):
“You said that ten minutes ago.”
“I know. I forgot my laundry.”
LOLITA:
“Again?”
Kyle laughs quietly.
KYLE:
“Meet me at the laundry house. Five minutes.”
LOLITA:
“You owe me coffee.”
KYLE:
“Deal.”
They hang up.
Kyle slips on his shoes, grabs his phone, and heads out.
___
[APARTMENT COMPLEX – PRE-DAWN]
___
The sky is beginning to soften.
Morning isn’t here yet — but night is thinning.
Kyle walks along the narrow sidewalk that runs the back edge of the complex.
Beyond a CHAIN-LINK FENCE lies a THICKET of trees and brush.
Past that — a TRAILER PARK.
The shortcut people always take.
___
[LAUNDRY HOUSE]
One small window in a rickety iron door.
A small, windowless concrete room.
Rows of WASHERS and DRYERS hum softly.
Two large TRASH CANS sit in opposite corners.
A small TV bolted high on the wall, protected by a rusted IRON CAGE, plays static.
Kyle enters alone.
The door CLANGS shut behind him.
He checks his phone.
No new messages.
Kyle hops up and sits on top of a DRYER, feet dangling.
He scrolls. Waits.
The machines finish a cycle with a dull CHIME.
Kyle glances toward the door.
Still smiling.
Still relaxed.
Still unaware.
[CAMERA HOLDS ON KYLE]
The room hums.
Normal.
Too normal.