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A grand American ballroom, crystal chandeliers glowing overhead, warm golden lighting. All characters are white American actors in formal evening wear. Close-up: cream silk fabric tears audibly as two white American women in designer gowns rip the dress off a younger white American woman. Her face contorts in shock and humiliation. Around them, a crowd of white American guests in tuxedos and gowns holds up phones, filming in silence, tension thick and suffocating. Suddenly, the ballroom doors open. The crowd parts. A tall white American man in a charcoal coat strides through, his expression granite-hard. He stops in the center of the room, looks directly at the two women, and says calmly but with absolute authority: "Where is my daughter?" The room freezes. Close-up on the older woman's face draining of color. Whispers ripple through the crowd. Phones lower slowly. The tension shifts from cruelty to fear. No logos, no brand names, no signage, no watermarks, no text overlays. Cinematic, grounded realism, U.S. short-form drama tone.