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In a sleek Silicon Valley executive boardroom at late morning, harsh white LED lighting reflects off a chrome prototype engine sitting on a long glass table. Jamal, a white American man in his early 30s wearing a navy janitor jumpsuit with grease-stained hands, stands frozen in the doorway holding a heavy black trash bag, jaw tight and eyes lowered. Victoria, a white American woman in her early 40s in a sharp designer suit and red heels, steps close with a cruel smirk while several white American executives in expensive suits turn to stare. The camera starts on a wide shot showing the engine and the tense room, then pushes into a close-up on Jamal’s clenched fist as Victoria lifts her phone to start recording, her wrist jewelry catching the light. Victoria says, sharp and mocking, “Fix it, janitor.” Jamal lifts his gaze, voice controlled, “It’s the harmonics.” The room goes dead quiet, faces tightening, phones half-raised; tension peaks in the silence with a low ominous music hit. No logos, no brand names, no signage, no watermarks, no text overlays.

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In a sleek Silicon Valley executive boardroom at late morning, harsh white LED lighting reflects off a chrome prototy...

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