The camera opens into a well-kept middle-class home. Decorative walls, a manicured yard dotted with beautiful, ornate flowers, and colorful patterns that radiate an air of careful decorum. This serene atmosphere contrasts sharply with the man at the center of it all.
He's slightly above average height, Haitian-American, with smooth, dark brown afro-textured hair that echoes the 90s, warm forest brown eyes, and rich, caramel-brown skin that catches the light. At 29 years old, he wears a gray hoodie and camouflage pants, his hands encased in gloves with yellow and white accents. His focus is on the task at hand: fixing electrical wires. It's clear he's just finished handling a plumbing issue in the basement.
The Overseer.
P.O.V. The Stranger
"Come on," he mutters to himself as his hands glide over the breaker panel. The Stranger straightens up, his back aching slightly, and walks tiredly to the couch.
"Ha, finally," he exclaims, glancing at the time.
"Oh, shit." He jolts to his feet.
| 3 hours later |
A few swift strides, and he grabs his keys. "Better safe than sorry," he murmurs, brushing his left hand over the alarm system. There's a click, then silence. A few moments pass while he absentmindedly whistles a lullaby.
"Good enough," he shrugs, heading out the door and into his car.
Ring, ring.
"What's up, Ar? Oh, that's rich, coming from you. Fashionably late, huh?" He starts the car, the engine roaring to life.
"Come on, man. It's only 16 minutes. You're almost late, Emma." He chuckles as he pulls out of the driveway, his voice light, but still with that playful edge.
A pause. Then, his voice, sly and amused:
"Almost. But I didn't know you were both a prophet and a bad comedian in one lifetime. That deserves an award."
Both of them laugh—loudly—before silence settles between them. The road hums beneath the tires as minutes tick away.
P.O.V. Arnold Strickland
Arnold Strickland—known to his friends as Ar—is a man of Afro-Latino descent, his deep cream skin contrasting with his dark, olive-black hair. He's dressed in a cheap cream-brown suit that's just a little too big for him, with a heart-shaped pendant dangling from a chain around his neck.
Sitting in the office, his eyes dart nervously around the room, trying not to look out of place. He moves closer to the phone, his gaze troubled.
"You and I both know that when anything's important, you're the one who's always late, Em." He glances down at his cheap watch.
"Nine minutes." He mutters to himself, his brow furrowing in frustration.
"Come on, Em. Don't make me look stupid in front of the negotiator."
Em's P.O.V.
Em strides through the bustling streets, moving with urgency, his breath heavy as he quickens his pace.
Finally, he bursts into the office, barely catching his breath. He looks over at Ar, who's standing near the conference table, arms crossed.
"And not a moment too soon," Em mutters, panting. He raises an eyebrow at Ar. "You look like you just saw a ghost."
Ar shoots him a questioning glare. "You look like shit, Em. Get it together."
Em doesn't reply, instead turning toward the bathroom to catch his breath. His reflection in the mirror stares back at him coldly, a look of self-doubt written across his face.
"Almost didn't make it, Em," he thinks to himself. "You gotta step up your game."
30 minutes into the meeting…
The tension in the room is palpable. Papers are neatly stacked on the ornate desk, the faint sound of the clock ticking steadily filling the silence. The two men sit, uneasy, waiting for the final offer from the negotiator, a man with slicked-back gray hair and a weary demeanor.
"So, with all expenses covered and the equipment accounted for, we're looking at a 30/70 revenue split. How does that sound, gentlemen?" The negotiator speaks with a calm, practiced tone, but there's an underlying tension in his voice as he glances between the two men.
Em leans forward in his chair, his expression serious.
"Why not make it 40/60?" he says bluntly, his voice cutting through the air. "It seems like you've got more rights than us in this deal. How can this 'final offer' be considered fair for both sides? Both sides have the potential to make a substantial amount of money here, even if one side has more royalties. The contract should reflect a more equitable split. A 60/40 deal makes more sense."
The negotiator shifts uncomfortably in his seat, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He glances between the two men, clearly feeling the pressure mounting.
They lock eyes, a silent battle of wills. Neither one blinks. The room seems to shrink, and the tension is almost unbearable.
The negotiator swallows, his voice strained.
"Final offer. Your choice," he dares them, his tone growing darker as he braces for a response.
Em stands, his eyes narrowing as he glares at the negotiator. His mind races, but his expression remains calm.
The room feels like it's closing in around them. Em's gaze is sharp, but behind it is something else—greed—a hunger for something more. The room crackles with the energy of unspoken thoughts, a fuse burning slowly, inching toward an inevitable explosion.
Arnold stands too, trying to defuse the situation with calm words.
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," he says, his voice measured. "How about a compromise? We can all walk away from this with something."
Em's eyes flicker toward him, then back to the negotiator, his face hardening. He speaks slowly, deliberately:
"I refuse."