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Outside a Chicago hospital entrance in late afternoon winter light, snow whipping sideways under a gray sky. Elena (late 20s, white American, pale and shaking, hospital gown under a thin coat, barefoot) sits hunched on a metal bench clutching a swaddled newborn tight to her chest, her lips bluish with cold. Frank (mid 50s, white American, tall, sturdy build, clean-shaven, wool overcoat and scarf) strides into frame, stops dead, panic flashing across his face; the camera follows in a medium shot then snaps to a close-up of Elena’s trembling feet on icy concrete. Frank yanks off his coat and wraps it around her and the baby, hands urgent but careful; close-up on Elena’s wide, terrified eyes as she whispers, “Uncle Frank… he locked me out.” Frank’s jaw tightens, voice low and controlled: “You’re not staying out here.” The wind howls, traffic hisses on wet slush, tension high with a muted, pulsing score. No logos, no brand names, no signage, no watermarks, no text overlays.

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Outside a Chicago hospital entrance in late afternoon winter light, snow whipping sideways under a gray sky. Elena (l...

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