#narrative The room is lit despite the night sky. Footsteps creak as the door open, revealing a woman wearing black boots, long pants, a heavy coat and a black mask that covers up her entire face leaving only her eyes exposed. She moves silently and slowly towards the kitchen carrying a black nine-millimeters pistol, carefully observing each step. Her heart races, breathing intensely unaware of what to expect. Fortunately, a mirror on the opposite side of the wall reflects the kitchen. She sees a tall, blonde man with his shirt slightly unbutton, head tilted downwards to a cutting board slicing through the freckles of freshly picked lettuce with a sharp-edged knife. Her eyes linger upon him in curiosity, fandom and uncertainty trying to decipher the numerous thoughts racing through her mind—she hadn’t expected him to be here. As she decides what to do, his eyes look up and catches hers. Instinctively, she ducks behind the wall. The man, who happens to be an aspiring artist, has left his most priced piece hanging on his living room wall. She turns and glances at it, firmly reminding herself why she is there. Taking a deep breath, she rushes into the kitchen and points her gun, but the silence of an empty room pushes her finger off the stern trigger. While staring into the open kitchen, puzzled, a hand grabs her neck and rest the edge of a cold stricken blade upon her throat. Slowly raising her hands, she lays the gun on the table. The artist turns her around, with both their reflections in the mirror. He reaches to remove her mask. But, just before he could get a glimpse of her face, she quickly slips out a pocket knife, stabs him in the leg and dashes behind the counter. Screaming in pain, the artist falls to the ground. He struggles to lean against the opposite side of the same counter, holding his leg in agony. In a perfect juxtaposition, both their bodies can be seen sideways against the counter as they decide their next move. It looks as if they are in separate spaces, drawn apart by a thin line. With the gun on the counter, both of them anticipate retrieving it. In the most abrupt movement, they rush towards the counter, breaking the thin line and settling in the same space. Eyes gazed with one another, their hands race toward the weapon but collapse in a fleeting moment of touch, an unspoken intensity flares—a profound, uncertain connection that disrupts their determination. *Read the [[Ideas for Tempo Films/The Art/Screenplay]]*