(Scene: Late night. The apartment is dim, the only light coming from the flickering TV. Malik’s girlfriend sits quietly on the couch, his phone still in her hand. His jaw clenches when he sees it. The air is thick—like before a hurricane.)

MALIK: (laughs, sharp and humorless) Oh, so now you’re going through my phone? That’s what we doing?

(She doesn’t answer. Just looks at him, steady. That pisses him off more.)

MALIK: (voice dropping, dangerous) Nah, speak the fuck up. You got something to say? Then say it.

(Silence. He steps closer, looming over her. His fingers twitch like he wants to snatch the phone, but he’s holding back—barely.)

MALIK: (mocking) What, you just gonna sit there staring? You saw something you didn’t like? Huh?

(Her expression doesn’t change. It’s killing him. He needs a reaction—needs her to scream, cry, something. But she’s not giving it to him. So he pushes harder.)

MALIK: (voice rising) You wanna know why I was texting Laila? ‘Cause she answers me. She don’t sit there looking at me like I’m some fuckin’ ghost.

(A flicker in her eyes—almost imperceptible. But he catches it. Feeds on it.)

MALIK: (leaning in, taunting) Yeah, that got you, didn’t it? You wanna act like you don’t care? But you do. You always do.

(Her grip tightens on the phone. Just slightly. He grins—wild, reckless. He’s winning. Until—)

MALIK: (spitting the words) Go ‘head. Say something. Or you just gonna keep pretending you’re too good to react?

(And then—it happens. The crack. The moment before the storm breaks.)

(But she still doesn’t speak. And that’s the scariest part.)

(He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s pushed too far. And when she finally snaps—it’s gonna be quiet. And it’s gonna destroy him.)