[Scene: Dusk – Oliver's New Apartment, First Evening]
The sun hung low, its dying orange glow bleeding through the dusty windowpane. The room was still bare, walls a dull tan, floor cool beneath Oliver's socks. He sat cross-legged on the floor, near the small window, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the horizon through the screen of humidity and faint insect buzz.
It wasn't a beautiful sunset—just dry, faint, like a backdrop someone forgot to finish painting. A few palm trees swayed gently in the distance. Somewhere, a dog barked once, then went quiet.
Beside him on the linoleum floor sat an old CRT television, the kind with static-flecked screens and heavy backs. He'd brought it out of some idea of normalcy. But when he plugged it in earlier, the screen had stayed black, no sound, no life. It sat like a relic—mute and dusty, reflecting the sunset's glare in its curved glass.
With a slow grunt, Oliver got up and walked across the room. He plugged in the box fan, and it buzzed to life again, filling the space with its loud, constant hum. The air pushed gently against his sweat-dampened skin—warm, but better than nothing.
He walked to the window and pulled the curtains closed. The outside world dimmed, the orange glow replaced by fabric shadows.
He laid on the mattress—no frame, just a bed on the floor, half-covered in a wrinkled blanket. The ceiling stared down at him with cracks like old veins.
Oliver turned slightly and grabbed his phone off the floor beside him. The screen lit up with its familiar cold glow. No messages. No missed calls.
He held it above him for a moment, then let it rest on his chest.
The fan continued to hum. The sunset was gone. The room was hot.
Oliver stared up into the darkening ceiling.
Just another dry, wordless moment in the drift of days.
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Oliver looks through his phone scrolling while on the mattresses
Headline Summary: Chaos in Los Angeles as Anti-Trump Immigration Protests Escalate
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA — Social media platforms like TikTok, YouTube, and X (formerly Twitter) have exploded with footage and commentary as mass protests against former President Donald Trump and recent ICE immigration enforcement raids have erupted into widespread chaos across parts of Los Angeles.
What began as peaceful demonstrations quickly intensified, with thousands taking to the streets in opposition to the controversial federal immigration operations. Protestors cite growing concerns over civil rights violations and family separations allegedly linked to renewed ICE activities.
Major outlets including CNN, NBC, and FOX News have confirmed that the situation has escalated, with multiple clashes reported between protestors and the deployed National Guard units. Several zones across downtown and surrounding neighborhoods are experiencing heightened unrest.
Notably, protestors have torched multiple Waymo self-driving vehicles, symbolizing resistance against both federal control and the presence of tech-driven law enforcement surveillance. Skirmishes, road blockades, and reports of tear gas and crowd dispersal measures have circulated widely online.
Officials urge the public to avoid impacted areas. City leaders and advocacy groups are calling for calm, even as tensions remain high and the protests continue to evolve hour by hour.
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[Scene: Night – New Apartment, Still Heat and Humming Fan]
The room had gone dark now, save for the occasional blink of passing car lights seeping through the edges of the curtains. The box fan kept on with its loud, steady drone—like a tired machine refusing to stop. The heat hadn't lifted, only shifted, becoming a dull weight that settled across everything.
Oliver lay on the mattress, shirt sticking to his back, the sheets twisted and damp beneath him. His overweight frame pressed down heavily, gravity pulling harder in the silence. He shifted once—his ribs gave a muted throb of discomfort. He grimaced and turned the other way.
His breathing was slow, chest rising with effort. A soft wheeze every few minutes. He stretched his legs, one arm thrown above his head, the other resting across his midsection where the pressure was just a little less harsh.
A faint creak came from the walls—expanding wood or maybe just the place settling into the night. The fan blew warm air across his face, not refreshing, just movement.
He closed his eyes.
The ache in his ribs, the weight pressing on his joints, the sticky air—none of it let go. But exhaustion did what comfort couldn't.
He drifted slowly into a shallow, restless sleep, not peaceful, but complete enough to forget the moment.
The fan kept turning.
The night dragged on.
And Oliver slept beneath the weight of it all.
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