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Inside an upscale U.S. jewelry store at midday, bright cool-white showroom lighting glints off glass cases and polished floors. Ethan, a white American boy around 12 with dirty bare feet, a torn sleeveless shirt, and a tense, guarded expression, steps to the counter clutching a bulging black plastic bag of coins; Frank, a stocky white American security guard in a dark uniform, strides in fast with his hand reaching for the boy’s shoulder. Medium shot follows Frank closing the gap; Ethan jerks away and dumps the bag onto the glass—coins explode and scatter with sharp metallic clatter. Close-up on Ethan’s trembling hand as he slaps a wrinkled pawn ticket down, eyes locked forward; cut to Frank’s stunned face, jaw tight, hand hovering midair. Ethan says, low and firm, “Don’t touch me. I’m here for my mom’s necklace.” Frank snaps, “You can’t be in here.” The room around them goes dead quiet, tension thick, subtle bass hit in the score; no logos, no brand names, no signage, no watermarks, no text overlays.