Candlelight flickers across polished glass—soft jazz drifting through the air, elegant guests speaking in low voices—everything controlled, perfect—
until something shifts.
A waitress steps toward Table Twelve.
Nora.
Calm.
Measured.
She pours water—
and under the table—
a flash.
A burner phone—quickly hidden.
Her eyes sharpen.
Something’s wrong.
“More water?”
Her voice stays smooth.
The fiancée smiles.
Too perfect.
The camera glides—
CLOSE-UP—
three men across the room.
Not eating.
Watching.
Scanning.
Angles.
Entrances.
Exits.
The tension rises beneath the surface.
Nora leans closer to Roman—
adjusting the glass—
and whispers, fast, precise:
“Your fiancée set a trap. Leave now.”
Silence crashes into the moment.
The jazz falters—warps—
then fades.
Roman doesn’t move.
CLOSE-UP—
his eyes shift.
Cold.
Calculating.
The fiancée’s smile flickers—just for a second.
Enough.
Near the entrance—
one of the men moves his hand inside his jacket.
Slow.
Deliberate.
The room feels different now.
Heavier.
Dangerous.
Roman places his napkin down.
Carefully.
Controlled.
He looks at Nora—
just once.
A silent exchange.
Understanding.
Then—
he begins to stand.
—and in that exact moment—
