FADE IN:
SUPER – TEXT SCROLL
Pretty Boy Peter, smooth on the wire,
Caught on the curb as a late-night flyer.
Blew past the line, his luck turned dire,
Now clockin’ in as a “D-U-I hire”—
Wheels in the ditch, but he still aims higher.
Boss man grins, says, “Kid, you’re cheap,”
Paperwork stacked, and promises deep.
In his pocket, a mirror he keeps—
Checks his own face when the mornings are bleak,
Pretty Boy Peter, the glass won’t speak.
She waits by the door with a glance so cold,
Dreams of the fjords that the stories told.
He stares in the mirror, but sees not gold,
The road and the bottle still keep their hold—
Will Pretty Boy lose his Henrietta untold?
FADE OUT TEXT.
FADE IN:
INT. DIVE BAR – NIGHT
Dim light seeps from a single bulb over the counter. A jukebox hums faintly in the corner.
The BARTENDER (50s, weary, eyes always moving) wipes the same glass again and again, watching without looking.
At a table, HENRIETTA (mid-30s, mysterious, Scandinavian, a scar across her knuckle) sits with her drink. The ice has melted.
ON THE TABLE:
A manila folder stamped SECRET/NOFORN.
Beside it, a plain, unmarked thumb drive.
They rest in the light like any other forgotten objects, ordinary yet impossibly heavy.
Henrietta doesn’t touch them. She traces the rim of her glass with one finger.
The BARTENDER’s eyes shift toward the folder, then away.
CUT TO:
INT. DIVE BAR – RESTROOM – CONTINUOUS
PRETTY BOY PETER (40s, gray hair, athletic frame, vain in a TV-host sort of way) leans over the vanity mirror. He rehearses smiles as if the glass were a live broadcast.
PRETTY BOY PETER
(to his reflection)
Still got it. Still the man.
His pocket mirror slips out, cracks on the sink. He doesn’t notice.
CUT TO:
INT. DIVE BAR – MAIN ROOM – CONTINUOUS
The door opens. ICE BARBIE (40s, voluptuous, heavy makeup, botoxed lips, every move deliberate) steps inside. Her heels click like subpoenas.
She slides into the booth directly behind Henrietta. Sets her purse down with a metallic clink. Adjusts her chest, theatrical, mocking — cleavage as punctuation.
Henrietta doesn’t turn. In her watered drink, Barbie’s reflection floats, inverted.
The BARTENDER’s eyes shift again. He sees both women, then looks at the thumb drive.
CUT TO:
EXT. DIVE BAR – PARKING LOT – CONTINUOUS
A sedan idles beneath a flickering streetlight. Exhaust curls in the cold air.
STEPHEN MILLER (as himself — pale, restless) sits behind the wheel. One hand taps the steering wheel. The other clutches a blank folder.
MILLER
(muttering)
Any minute now.
He checks the mirrors. Side. Rearview. The black glass of the bar window. Always waiting.
CUT BACK TO:
INT. DIVE BAR – MAIN ROOM – CONTINUOUS
Henrietta sips slowly. Her hand hovers just above the folder.
FLASHBACK – EXT. SNOWFIELD – NORWAY – NIGHT (YEARS EARLIER)
Henrietta drops into snow as a floodlight sweeps across the white. A heavy pack on her back. Breath sharp in the cold. She waits, still as stone.
BACK TO:
INT. DIVE BAR – MAIN ROOM – NIGHT
The silence deepens.
A PHONE on the table beside Henrietta’s glass lights up and vibrates.
CALLER ID: SUSIE.
The ringtone slices through the room.
Henrietta looks at it without expression.
The restroom door creaks open.
PRETTY BOY PETER bursts out, cheeks shining, tie crooked. His grin is too big for the room.
PRETTY BOY PETER
(announcing)
And still the champ!
He slaps the table, inches from the folder. His eyes catch the glowing phone.
PRETTY BOY PETER
(soft, almost curious)
Susie?
Henrietta’s hand blocks him — not touching, just there.
The BARTENDER’s eyes shift once more. First to the folder. Then to the thumb drive. Finally to the phone. He doesn’t blink.
ICE BARBIE tilts her head, smiling faintly, hand near her purse.
The phone stops ringing. Silence.
Then, it lights up again.
CALLER ID: SUSIE.
Everyone watches.
No one moves.
FADE OUT.
SUPER – TEXT SCROLL
Pretty Boy Peter, smooth on the wire,
Caught on the curb as a late-night flyer.
Blew past the line, his luck turned dire,
Now clockin’ in as a “D-U-I hire”—
Wheels in the ditch, but he still aims higher.
Boss man grins, says, “Kid, you’re cheap,”
Paperwork stacked, and promises deep.
In his pocket, a mirror he keeps—
Checks his own face when the mornings are bleak,
Pretty Boy Peter, the glass won’t speak.
She waits by the door with a glance so cold,
Dreams of the fjords that the stories told.
He stares in the mirror, but sees not gold,
The road and the bottle still keep their hold—
Will Pretty Boy lose his Henrietta untold?
FADE OUT TEXT.
FADE IN:
INT. DIVE BAR – NIGHT
Dim light seeps from a single bulb over the counter. A jukebox hums faintly in the corner.
The BARTENDER (50s, weary, eyes always moving) wipes the same glass again and again, watching without looking.
At a table, HENRIETTA (mid-30s, mysterious, Scandinavian, a scar across her knuckle) sits with her drink. The ice has melted.
ON THE TABLE:
A manila folder stamped SECRET/NOFORN.
Beside it, a plain, unmarked thumb drive.
They rest in the light like any other forgotten objects, ordinary yet impossibly heavy.
Henrietta doesn’t touch them. She traces the rim of her glass with one finger.
The BARTENDER’s eyes shift toward the folder, then away.
CUT TO:
INT. DIVE BAR – RESTROOM – CONTINUOUS
PRETTY BOY PETER (40s, gray hair, athletic frame, vain in a TV-host sort of way) leans over the vanity mirror. He rehearses smiles as if the glass were a live broadcast.
PRETTY BOY PETER
(to his reflection)
Still got it. Still the man.
His pocket mirror slips out, cracks on the sink. He doesn’t notice.
CUT TO:
INT. DIVE BAR – MAIN ROOM – CONTINUOUS
The door opens. ICE BARBIE (40s, voluptuous, heavy makeup, botoxed lips, every move deliberate) steps inside. Her heels click like subpoenas.
She slides into the booth directly behind Henrietta. Sets her purse down with a metallic clink. Adjusts her chest, theatrical, mocking — cleavage as punctuation.
Henrietta doesn’t turn. In her watered drink, Barbie’s reflection floats, inverted.
The BARTENDER’s eyes shift again. He sees both women, then looks at the thumb drive.
CUT TO:
EXT. DIVE BAR – PARKING LOT – CONTINUOUS
A sedan idles beneath a flickering streetlight. Exhaust curls in the cold air.
STEPHEN MILLER (as himself — pale, restless) sits behind the wheel. One hand taps the steering wheel. The other clutches a blank folder.
MILLER
(muttering)
Any minute now.
He checks the mirrors. Side. Rearview. The black glass of the bar window. Always waiting.
CUT BACK TO:
INT. DIVE BAR – MAIN ROOM – CONTINUOUS
Henrietta sips slowly. Her hand hovers just above the folder.
FLASHBACK – EXT. SNOWFIELD – NORWAY – NIGHT (YEARS EARLIER)
Henrietta drops into snow as a floodlight sweeps across the white. A heavy pack on her back. Breath sharp in the cold. She waits, still as stone.
BACK TO:
INT. DIVE BAR – MAIN ROOM – NIGHT
The silence deepens.
A PHONE on the table beside Henrietta’s glass lights up and vibrates.
CALLER ID: SUSIE.
The ringtone slices through the room.
Henrietta looks at it without expression.
The restroom door creaks open.
PRETTY BOY PETER bursts out, cheeks shining, tie crooked. His grin is too big for the room.
PRETTY BOY PETER
(announcing)
And still the champ!
He slaps the table, inches from the folder. His eyes catch the glowing phone.
PRETTY BOY PETER
(soft, almost curious)
Susie?
Henrietta’s hand blocks him — not touching, just there.
The BARTENDER’s eyes shift once more. First to the folder. Then to the thumb drive. Finally to the phone. He doesn’t blink.
ICE BARBIE tilts her head, smiling faintly, hand near her purse.
The phone stops ringing. Silence.
Then, it lights up again.
CALLER ID: SUSIE.
Everyone watches.
No one moves.
FADE OUT.