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In a fluorescent-lit American high school classroom at midday, rows of desks sit under buzzing ceiling lights. Maya, a white American teenage girl (16, thrift-store hoodie, messy brown hair, guarded expression), sits rigid at her desk as Tyler, a white American teenage boy (17, varsity jacket, cocky grin), slams his fist down and crushes a delicate balsa-wood model house; tiny shingles and splinters scatter across the linoleum. The camera starts on a medium shot of Tyler’s fist hitting the model, then cuts to a tight close-up of Maya’s unmoving face as the class reacts with nervous laughter. A white American substitute teacher, Mr. Henderson (late 50s, tweed jacket, tired eyes turning sharp), steps into frame; the camera follows him in a quick handheld push-in as he kneels and lifts a scorched wall fragment, his fingers freezing when he sees red stains and barricaded miniature furniture. Tyler sneers, delivering it casually: “Ugly trash for an ugly girl.” Mr. Henderson looks up, voice low and steady: “This isn’t a dollhouse.” The room falls tense and silent, ambient sound dropping under a slow, ominous music cue. No logos, no brand names, no signage, no watermarks, no text overlays.