INT. PALE, OVERLIT ROOM – NIGHT
Three men sit and stand in a cement room that smells faintly of salt and cigarettes. The walls are pale, almost clinical. A more than plentiful supply of cigarettes are next to an ashtray on a small center table. There are a few folding chairs in the room. A door looms but remains shut, locked.
MARCO They keeping us in ’til tomorrow?
ADRIAN Could be worse.
MARCO How exactly?
Adrian lights a cigarette. The warped reflection in the ashtray makes him flinch.
ADRIAN I mean— we could be in a warzone. Ukraine or wherever.
THEO I’d take that battlefield over this box. At least there, you do something.
Marco chuckles, low.
ADRIAN You wouldn’t last a day buddy. You can’t swim out of war.
Marco edges closer, brushing Adrian’s shoulder.
THEO Fuck off. Try swimming against me.
Adrian’s leg bounces harder. He pretends to check his watch.
ADRIAN Swimming? Please. You ever try to keep time?
The silence grows taut.
THEO Yeah, all you do is bang things— can’t even sit still. Look at you.
Adrian stares at his jittering leg, freezes it still.
MARCO Enough. Don’t be an asshole.
ADRIAN Can’t believe I got stuck with you two…
THEO Like I chose this.
MARCO You did. All of us did— we’re here by choice.
Adrian exhales smoke, shaky. Offers Marco the pack.
ADRIAN Want one?
MARCO Thanks.
He passes it toward Theo.
THEO…(takes one, lights it)
The three smoke in silence.
THEO You know I read a play like this— three people stuck in a room. No way out. That’s hell.
MARCO Great. Philosophy class.
ADRIAN No, he’s right. No Exit. I saw this on BBC with my dad back when I was in high school. Three trapped forever. Two lesbians and a man.
THEO Hell isn’t about being stuck with people. It’s about wanting the wrong things from them, needing the wrong things, and never getting what you actually want. Sartre said it: hell is other people.
Marco exhales a slow stream, eyes narrowing.
MARCO (looks at Adrian) What— so this is hell? That’s what you’re saying?
ADRIAN Fuck you.
A pause. Marco studies Adrian. Adrian grips his cigarette too tight.
THEO Maybe each of us is each other’s hell.
MARCO Sounds like you’ve thought about this. Like you believe we’re already dead. You know we’ll be out tomorrow.
THEO So what? At least this is hell for now. Smoke. Fire. No clocks. Trapped with some other assholes. Literally no exit.
They all look at the door. Heavy silence.
ADRIAN Dead or not— we got nothing. Not hell. Just… nothing.
MARCO And nothing’ll crack you faster than fire.
Theo stares into the ashtray, the warped reflection.
THEO It isn’t other people. It’s yourself. Reflected back until you choke.
MARCO How fucking deep.
Adrian can’t look away from his reflection in the metal. His hand trembles.
ADRIAN Maybe we deserve it.
A silence stretches. The smoke thickens.
MARCO Deserve? That’s a dangerous word. You think you deserve to be in this room with me? With Theo?
THEO What? Oh— you got blood on your hands?
ADRIAN I haven’t done anything. I’m not—
MARCO See? Totally guilty. Him. Not me. Look at him. He twitches like a man with something to hide.
ADRIAN I told you— I didn’t do anything!
Adrian’s voice rings. Followed by silence.
MARCO Three men in a box. No clocks. No windows. Just some fucking cigarettes to keep us occupied.
Adrian stares at the door, breathing fast. Theo grinds his cigarette into the ashtray, hard.
THEO So there’s nothing. Maybe that’s the challenge.
ADRIAN No. No, there has to be more to it. You remember what they said before they let us in here? One thing.
MARCO Yeah, but that doesn’t matter. It’s supposed to pay out. Maybe the point is to see how long it takes before we tear each other apart.
The smoke swirls between them like a veil. Adrian forces his jittering leg still. Marco flicks ash into the tray. Theo leans forward, eyes on Adrian.
THEO You do twitch like a liar. Like you’re hiding something.
ADRIAN I told you— there’s nothing to hide…
THEO Then why does it sound like you’re convincing yourself?
Adrian falters. Marco watches, silent.
MARCO Here we go again. Same loop.
Theo exhales slowly, calmer now.
THEO God. Maybe I push because I see it.
ADRIAN You? What are you talking about?
THEO Pretending I’m tougher, louder… so no one sees what’s festering inside— That’s why I smell it on you.
MARCO Yeah… smells like bullshit.
Theo leans back, smoke spilling from his lungs.
THEO No. The room doesn’t lie. It strips you until you choke on what you won’t name…
Theo takes another drag.
THEO I don’t want to just choke if I’m trapped here.
Adrian looks unsettled. Marco tilts his head, studying Theo.
MARCO Then what is it you won’t name?
Theo doesn’t answer, still staring at the warped ashtray. Adrian shifts toward Marco.
ADRIAN Why do you always push like you’re the judge of us all?
MARCO Because someone has to.
ADRIAN Or maybe you’re too scared to put yourself on trial…
Marco leans forward, elbows on knees, voice lower, heavier.
MARCO You think I don’t carry anything? Watching you two tear at yourselves… it’s easier than looking at me… But in here— distance doesn’t exist.
He flicks ash sharply. Adrian shifts, uneasy.
ADRIAN So you’re just like the rest of us.
MARCO No. Worse. I made myself some kind of referee. Safe on the sidelines. Watching… maybe this room doesn’t need a referee. Maybe it needs someone willing to step in.
Adrian hesitates, fingers twitching.
ADRIAN Step in to what? I… I don’t know. Look at myself, I mean.
THEO You don’t get a choice. The room shows it all anyway. The lies, the hiding…
Adrian swallows, finally meets his reflection in the ashtray.
ADRIAN Maybe I’ve been lying… pretending I don’t care.
Marco nods slightly, encouraging without speaking. Adrian exhales. His fingers unclench; the leg that twitched now rests still.
ADRIAN I keep thinking if I say it out loud… it’ll make it real. And maybe that’s what scares me.
THEO Saying it doesn’t make it worse. I think hiding it does.
Adrian meets their eyes, steadier now. Marco exhales faintly, approving. Theo tilts his head, sensing the shift. A pause. The smoke lifts, lighter now.
THEO So maybe… it’s time we tell ourselves what we’ve been choking on.
Adrian glances at the reflection— not with fear, but recognition. The three sit in silence. The room still closed, the ashtray between them, distorted but shared. The smoke drifts upward, thinning.