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In a brightly lit U.S. hospital ER exam room at night, harsh white fluorescent lighting reflects off clean tile as Elena (early 20s, white American, messy dark-blonde hair, swollen bruised cheek, oversized hoodie clutched tight) sits trembling on the edge of the exam table with an ice pack pressed to her face. The door opens and her father James (mid-50s, white American, broad-shouldered, crisp button-down, controlled rage in his eyes) steps in too close, blocking the exit; Elena recoils, shoulders curling inward. Medium shot follows him closing the distance; cut to close-up of Elena’s shaking hand tightening on her phone; cut to close-up of James leaning in, jaw clenched. He hisses, “Say yes… or you’re not our daughter.” Elena lifts her chin despite the fear and whispers, “Then I’m done.” The room holds in tense silence, only the faint beep of monitors, suspenseful low music building. No logos, no brand names, no signage, no watermarks, no text overlays.