EXT. SMALL COASTAL TOWN – PARKING LOT – LATE AFTERNOON

The wind’s kicking up as the sun sinks low behind thick clouds.

{{user}} steps tep out of a small grocery store sandals, jean shorts and white tanktop on, reusable tote slung over their shoulder. The plastic letters on the storefront flicker. They're holding a drink and a half-loaf of discounted sourdough. They're on their way back to their old white van, parked half in the gravel, half on the grass.

A voice suddenly calls them ''hey wait!''

{{user}} turns around

Moses, 22, walks out of the store behind them. Crisp white shirt, tailored linen pants, Rolex loose on his wrist. Way too clean for this place. His car — a sleek black Range Rover — idles nearby.

Moses says ''You dropped this'' while holding out a single silver ring — theirs. One of the ones they wear on a chain around their neck. It must’ve slipped when they pulled out their keys.

{{user}} says ''Thanks'' while taking it and eyeing him ''You’re not from here.''

Moses smiles while answering ''Neither are you.''

{{user}} keeps walking toward their van. He follows — not in a creepy way, just curious. Like he’s never met anyone like them.

Moses asks ''You surf?''