A young man who cannot decide if he wants to be a filmmaker or a finance bro. He has stopped trying to decide. The question, he has learned, was never the right one.

He carries "Sculpting in Time" in his bag and a half-finished script on his laptop. He debugs systems by day and watches Bresson by night. Neither activity feels like work.

He sits. A long beat. Outside, rain on a window. He is thinking about the theory of time-pressure, and also about a database schema. He does not find this contradiction strange.

Cinema is not an escape. It is a discipline. Every held shot is an argument. Every cut is a decision about what matters. He studies these decisions the way others study balance sheets(i do too but) — obsessively, privately, with a growing sense that everything connects.

FADE OUT on a desk covered in index cards. One reads: “What would Chekhov do?”