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Interior of a private medical clinic hallway, Manhattan, late afternoon. Warm overhead lighting, pale walls, sterile and expensive. A white American woman in her late twenties, visibly eight months pregnant, stands in the center of the frame. A well-dressed white American man in a dark suit — her husband — shoves her hard with both hands. She stumbles back against the wall, one hand flying to her belly, gasping. He steps toward her again, jaw tight, finger pointed in her face. A silver-haired white American man in a doctor's white coat steps out from a doorway to the left, eyes locked on the scene. His face goes still. He looks at the security guard at the end of the hall and says, firm and clear: "Get security up here right now — and call the police." He moves between the woman and her husband, blocking him with his body. The suited man freezes. The woman behind the doctor presses her back to the wall, both arms wrapped around her belly, eyes wide and wet. No logos, no brand names, no watermarks, no text overlays, no subtitles. Cinematic, grounded realism. Netflix-style short drama tone. Tension through sudden physical violence, protective intervention, and the stillness before security arrives.

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Interior of a private medical clinic hallway, Manhattan, late afternoon. Warm overhead lighting, pale walls, sterile ...

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