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Interior of a high-end American restaurant, night. Warm amber lighting. Exposed brick. No logos, no signage, no text overlays, no watermarks. All characters are white American adults, natural and realistic in appearance. A white American man in his late twenties—lean, composed, chef whites removed, dark shirt—stands at the edge of a table for four. Across from him: a white American woman in her mid-fifties, frosted hair, silk blouse, jaw tight. Between them, a payment terminal sits on white tablecloth. Close-up on her face as she says, low and precise: "After everything we did for you, you can't give your own family one dinner?" Cut to his face. Still. Eyes direct. He says, quieter: "You had eighteen years to build a relationship with your son. You chose differently." Silence. The terminal beeps. He steps back. Wide shot: the dining room around them has gone still—other diners watching without looking, glasses paused mid-lift, candlelight steady. His posture doesn't shift. Hers collapses by a single degree. Cinematic, grounded, still. Netflix short-form drama tone. No narration, no inner thoughts, no cuts to other locations.

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Interior of a high-end American restaurant, night. Warm amber lighting. Exposed brick. No logos, no signage, no text ...

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