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Inside a small-town American chapel in the afternoon, muted gray daylight pours through tall frosted windows, turning the air cold and flat. In one tight, tense scene, Samuel Reed (late 60s, white American, weathered face, worn brown coat, scuffed shoes) rises from the last pew clutching a battered hat, while Paul Sheldon (mid-50s, white American, sharp suit, steel-rim glasses) stands at the front holding a sealed envelope. The camera starts in a wide shot showing rows of well-dressed white American mourners in black, then pushes into a medium shot as Gregory Whitmore (early 40s, white American, expensive black suit, clenched jaw) snaps his head around, eyes narrowing at Samuel. Cut to a close-up of Paul breaking the wax seal with a crisp crack, then a close-up of Samuel’s scarred hands tightening on the hat as whispers swell. Paul lifts his eyes, voice controlled: “Mr. Reed, please stand beside me.” Gregory leans forward, seething, and spits under his breath: “Who the hell is that?” The tension spikes in the silence, underscored by low, ominous strings. No logos, no brand names, no signage, no watermarks, no text overlays.