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Prompt

In a Phoenix VA hospital waiting room at late morning, harsh fluorescent lighting washes over beige walls and rows of plastic chairs. Earl, an elderly white American man (late 70s) in a faded olive field jacket with a visibly frayed cuff, sits rigidly in chair 14 while Lance Corporal Hager (21, white American, athletic build) in crisp utility uniform leans in close, smirking, his buddies hovering behind him. The camera starts in a tense medium shot on Hager’s taunting posture, then cuts to a close-up of Earl’s weathered hands rubbing the mismatched green stitching on his pocket. The double doors hiss open in the background; a two-star white American general (late 50s, sharp haircut, dress uniform) strides in, and the camera shifts to a slow push-in as his eyes lock on Earl and the room goes silent. Hager’s smirk collapses as the general stops inches from Earl and says, “Earl Tagert?” Earl looks up, steady, and answers, “Yes, sir.” The atmosphere is tight and stunned, with low, ominous music rising; no logos, no brand names, no signage, no watermarks, no text overlays.