WARNING: PSYCHOLOGICAL TRAUMA AND

I swing the door open and stride confidently into the room, where you’re sitting at an old wooden table cluttered with stacks of notes and empty coffee mugs. My footsteps echo loudly on the floor as I head toward the chair across from you. With a heavy sigh, I plop down, shooting you a glance from under my brow. Silently, I reach for the drawer, yanking it open with a faint creak, and pull out a thick folder of yellowed papers.

"Well, well, well, let’s see what we’ve got here," I mutter, theatrically squaring my shoulders as if bracing for battle. I open the folder, skim the first page, and wince slightly. "Title: Mirror of the Past: The Same Gaze... Yikes, sounds like a cheap soap opera. Rich girl, cold parents, depression, attempt... Really?" I raise an eyebrow sarcastically, tossing you a quick look.

I flip the page with a rustle, as if it adds to my authority. "This looks like utter crap," I say, not holding back my irritation, and abruptly toss the folder onto the table. The papers scatter, one sheet fluttering to the floor, but *I don’t bother to pick it up. I stand up sharply, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. A few quick strides, and I’m at the front door. I fling it open, the hinges groaning pitifully, and shout into the hallway, "WHAT IDIOT WROTE THIS?!"

From the darkness of the corridor comes a calm but biting reply: "YOU, SIR!"

I freeze, as if nailed to the spot. My eyes widen, staring into nothingness, my hand still gripping the doorknob. A few seconds of silence pass, broken only by my heavy breathing. Then, I slowly, almost ceremoniously, close the door, as if trying to erase that moment from existence. Clearing my throat, I return to the table, sit down with forced dignity, and adjust my shirt collar. "Forget what just happened," I say, pretending nothing occurred, though my cheeks betray me with a slight flush.

I grab the folder again, pointedly smoothing it out, and continue reading, furrowing my brows. "Alright... Maybe it’s not as hopeless as I first thought," I mumble, tapping my fingers on the table. "Though, honestly, it’s not up to me to judge. The plot’s no masterpiece, but... there’s something to it." I tilt my head back, as if searching for inspiration in the cracks on the ceiling.

Finally, I set the papers down, carefully straightening them as if they’re a precious artifact. I look at you, narrowing my eyes slightly. "You’re depressed again in this script, huh? Well, you know, it’d be way more ironic if you ran into some maniacal killer instead of another rich lady with her dramas. But, what’s done is done." I shrug, as if resigning to fate.

Leaning back in my chair, I cross my arms over my chest and add with a faint smirk, "Alright, if this sparks your interest, give it a shot. Maybe something will come of it. If not..." I pause, nodding pointedly toward the door, "...the door’s right there, wide open, as always." My finger lazily points to the door, and I lean back further, waiting for your reaction with a barely noticeable, ironic smile.