The room is a monument to perfect symmetry and rigid order. High-end art pieces hang on the walls. Thick volumes of law and self-help literature line the shelves like soldiers. On the desk, a top-tier laptop rests squarely in the center. Everything here has been meticulously engineered according to the formula for a "successful life." ARAS (30s), sharply dressed, the epitome of a modern corporate climber, sits at the desk. His gaze is locked onto the glowing screen. An email in bold, aggressive capital letters reads: "CONGRATULATIONS. YOU HAVE BEEN APPOINTED TO SENIOR PARTNER." There is no joy in Aras’s face. His eyes are entirely hollow, reflecting nothing but the cold blue light of the monitor. He stands up, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling glass window, looking out at the sprawling city lights. The luxury smartwatch on his wrist vibrates. A notification flashes: Heart rate elevated. ARAS (V.O.) (A deep, shaky exhale) Ever since I can remember, I’ve been handed a map. "You’re smart," they told me. "You’re a natural-born leader. This is who you are." And I ran. God, I ran so hard just to fill that mold. The elite schools, the degrees, this promotion... Everyone designed a version of 'Aras' for me, and I gladly squeezed myself into it. But tonight... I feel completely empty. Like a ghost haunting someone else’s life. Aras slowly turns back to the desk. Squeezed between the glossy motivational books lies an old, weathered philosophy paperback: Jean-Paul Sartre. A single sentence on the open page is underlined in bleeding red ink: "Existence precedes essence." Aras traces his finger over the words. ARAS (V.O.) (CONT'D) "First you exist," the man writes. "Then you define yourself." Which means... I was a blank slate when I was born. These titles, these accolades... they aren't my essence. They’re just a sanctuary. Comfortable prisons I built to escape the terrifying responsibility of creating my own self. If who I am wasn't predetermined... then who the hell is the man standing in this room right now? Aras takes a sharp breath. He slips off his expensive tailored jacket and lets it drop carelessly to the floor. He tears at his tie, loosening it. For the first time, a wild, volatile spark flashes in his eyes—a cocktail of pure terror and liberation. He is feeling it: the heavy, sickening vertigo of absolute freedom. EXT. METRO STATION - DAY Next morning. Rush hour. A sea of commuters flows down the escalators toward the train tracks. It’s a hypnotic, monochrome tide of grey and black suits, everyone moving in lockstep. Aras is buried in the crowd. Just as he reaches the turnstiles, he freezes. He becomes a boulder breaking the current. People crash into his shoulders from behind, muttering curses, pushing past him. The phone in his pocket buzzes violently. The office is calling. He pulls it out, stares at the vibrating screen for a second, and then sets it down on the cold metal ledge of the turnstile. Without a backward glance, he turns around. He starts pushing his way up the exit stairs, walking dead against the flow of the crowd. Right there, at the threshold of the exit gate, the unexpected happens. A sudden event—or perhaps a specific person—appears right in front of him, forcing him to take a leap into the unknown.