Laughter fills the terrace—soft music drifting under golden lights, glasses clinking, wealthy guests relaxed— Camera settles on Preston in his wheelchair, raising his wine glass—smiling— then— a small barefoot boy steps into frame. Close.
Too close. “Sir… I can help your leg.”
The laughter spreads instantly. Some guests turn. Others smirk.
Preston looks him up and down—amused. “You? How long will that take?”
The boy doesn’t hesitate. “Just a few seconds.”
More laughter. Phones begin to rise. Preston leans forward slightly—cold now—
places a checkbook on the table.
“Fix it… I’ll give you a million.” The air shifts.
Laughter fades. Something heavier replaces it.
The boy steps closer. Slow. Unafraid. He kneels beside the chair.
Gently places his hand on Preston’s leg. The music dips— lower— darker— “Count with me.”
Preston smirks again—about to dismiss him— “This is ridicu—” He stops.
Mid-word. His breath catches. CLOSE-UP—
his foot. A twitch. Small. But real. His eyes widen instantly. “…what…?”
The terrace goes silent. Guests lean forward.
Phones trembling now. The boy’s voice stays steady.
“One… two…” The leg moves again.
Stronger this time.
Preston grips the table hard. Breathing changes.
Faster. Uncontrolled.
He tries to push himself up— hands shaking—hope breaking through fear—
Camera PUSHES IN— his face collapsing between disbelief and something dangerous—real— —and just as he begins to rise—
