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Teaser Script for Hara Sa FU 2026

EPISODE 1: INT. SMALL ROOM – NIGHT

A series of establishing shots.

A hazy light seeps through uneven blinds, painting the walls of a narrow room with an erratic hue of blue and feverish pink. A receiver, or some relic of it, sits haphazardly on the table. There is a fan circling above, and the posters attached on one side of the wall tremble with the natural rhythm of its circulation.

The coagulation of wires runs through the expanse of the ceiling, towards a narrow corner where the only functional computer in the room is sitting. This entanglement may be producing the faint buzzing sound that is currently diluting the fragile silence of the evening. A weak spasm of neon light flickers in the opposite corner of the rain-streaked window, coloring the tiles with a pale paint, which, for the moment, makes the room a little grainy and drained.

RADIO VOICE (recording)

“If you can hear this... you are inside the system. ... . Save

yourself—”

The silhouetted reflection of a young woman appears on the surface of dark aviator sunglasses. A voice repeats over the radio, its broadcast obviously distorted.

Fralean (her voice low)
“The old district vanished overnight.”

On the metal table, we find a stack of books, each one visibly warped on one side by age and moisture. A few names are familiar: Phillip K. Dick, Thucydides... Below this deck, a few cassette tapes are scattered. Their spools are tangled and sun-bleached, and it is a question whether they are still functional. The wayside of the room is scarred by cigarette burns. Near the window, there’s a small monitor that occasionally sputters to life with a few bursts of the daily broadcast. The cables leading into it are wrapped in tape, and one of them glows faintly red, as though the power sustaining it has become radioactive.

Fralean continuing

“The AI erased our names, our families, the scent of the old streets. The sky is a dull gray now.”

A cold gust leaks through the cracks beneath the window frame, whistling an eerie tone. When it reaches the room, it carries the smell of metal and wet asphalt from the outside. The curtains, or rather, its skeleton, breathe in slow spasms, heavy with dust and sickly condensation.

There is a constant tinkering in the background, and the young woman drifts through the floor in deliberate movements. Every few seconds something sparks and a relay comes to life. She puts down a cup of newly roasted coffee on top of the table.

HARD CUT TO: ABANDONED BUILDING

A government issued building comes into view, and we finally get a hint of the young woman’s situation. A large block of uniform windows are revealed as the camera zooms out. Some lights have been turned off. Only one window is visibly occupied and it is a wonder if the rest are artificially maintained to dampen the emptiness of the vicinity. Outside, the last remaining sodium lamps are buzzing. It looks like a dying sun against the encroaching cold of the weather. The ivy crawls across the lonesome bench beside it, and makes its way through the rusted bolts and the shallow wood grain that used to be a popular resting area for elderly walkers.

There is a glimpse of the long and geometric halls inside the building. Someone might have walked through here hours ago, but in truth, the entire floor has been vacated for nearly two decades.

The drones outside pass in slow intervals. Each time they
make their way through the young woman’s window, she lets out an occasional gasp and involuntarily jerks to crouch under the table.

Fralean
“And there are cameras surveilling our movement.”

CUT TO: EXT. RAINY STREETS

A steady industrial downpour makes the alley slick and
slippery. The ghoulish reflections of the upper floor apartments stretch across the puddles. An elderly woman in a transparent raincoat finds shelter beneath a thin awning. Her breath is labored, coming in sharp bursts as her eyes dart between the corners of the alley and the metal bins, and the neon runoff pooling at her feet. Somewhere above, a CCTV unit swivels, its lens focusing with slow precision. Another figure moves through the rain: a garbage collector, dragging translucent sacks filled with discarded tech and decomposing packaging. His coat is the same sterile white, streaked with grime. A few other laborers work in silence, their faces obscured by the rudimentary covering of the AI-issued raincoats.

They are uniformed personnel patrolling the workers. It is not a surety if they are really humans in symmetrical outfits. A patrol car tears past the street, its loud siren scraping against the walls. The strong xenon bulb pulses through the mist like lightning. The elderly woman exhales slowly, clenching something invisible inside her pockets.

EXT. ABANDONED GARDEN - NIGHT

FRALEAN (quietly, to herself)
“There are still people out there.

The old university lobby is now abandoned. The only light
monitoring its periphery is a police installation that has an electric bruise color. The floor east of the main entrance is a wasteland of old tires and guts of discarded machines. Through the window, rust runs down the neighboring unit in clean orange veins. Rain slides across the glass in crooked streaks, mixing with the light outside until everything looks liquefied.

The old garden and its rotting symmetry is a half swamp now, its surface scummed over into a green, oil-thick skin that barely stirs in the strong wind. It looks alive in the worst way, and there is a prehistoric stench about it that makes your teeth ache. No one’s been here in years. There is a slow suggestion that something is being nursed at the surface.

INT. APARTMENT

Continuous rain pours down from the outside.

FRALEAN (quietly, to herself)
Hiding.”

A thin line of solder smoke drifts upward and twists in the
stagnant air. The woman steadies her wrist and presses the tip of a worn iron against a joint on the board. Only her fingers move, small, deliberate motions tracing between wires, screws, and the splinters of past attempts. She adjusts her glasses and lifts the cord she’s been punching into the small port of an ancient receiver. The cable resists, and she slams it in with the heel of her palm. When she finally looks up, her eyes linger on the faint red glow of the cable. It pulses irregularly, like a heartbeat on the verge of stopping. She writes something beside her diagram, some sort of jagged shape with a series of lines connecting to nowhere, then reaches for another battery. The radio keeps going on about the broadcast. The voice repeats, softer now under the weight of static. She shifts slightly, resting her head against the shelf. The reflection of the pulsing light dances across her face.

FRALEAN
“Waiting for this nightmare to end.”

A brief pitch rises from the thing she’s been assembling, something between a shriek and a pulse. She tightens a screw and the sound dips before climbing again. A thin spark leaps from one contact to another followed by a faint smell of ozone.

FRALEAN
“Federal Algorithmic Control Entity. That’s what they called the AI. A secret government program intended to make things faster—to make the world of commerce frictionless.”

“Two years later, we have become, ourselves, machines: our identity reduced to our jobs.”

The fan turns lazily above her, its motor producing a soft,
insect-like drone. A piece of paper whose lower half is unwittingly stuck by grime is flapping intermittently against the wind. The woman stands up, her face taking on a waxy sheen, reflected in the chrome fragments scattered across the table. She adjusts a dial with two fingers, before returning to the table where the old radio is stationed. The radio clicks and restarts itself. It is repeating the same phrase again. The woman watches, detached, as if studying a dying monitor.

Fralean
“Everyone is the same, and no one is anyone anymore.”

RADIO VOICE (recording)
“If you can hear this... you are inside the system...”
She closes her eyes as the sound loops endlessly in the
background.

The woman leans toward the window, her shadow stretching across the narrow frame. Only half her face is visible. Her gaze is fixed outward, on the weather that has turned restless, the clouds spreading in loose, chalky strands. A figure slouches past a shuttered storefront, dragging a plastic bag that scrapes against the pavement. Below, the avenues are vacant. Cars sit tilted, and remain so for a long time. Their windshields are now powdered white. Plastic bags that clinged to the old fences whisper every time the air shifts. The wind pushes through a broken drain and carries a low, human sound that could be laughter or an animal dying. The static of the radio deepens, then warps to an unfamiliar sound. A different tone flickers through like a brief announcement that's almost imperceptible. The woman opens
her eyes in shock.

RADIO VOICE (new)
“...Fralean...”

Her breath escapes her notice. The name dissolves into white noise, then the old loop resumes. She grabs the radio.

RADIO VOICE (recording)
“If you can hear this... you are inside the system...”

The woman leans forward. The radio sputters in and out of range. For a second, it almost sounds like someone said her name. She freezes.

FRALEAN
“...what—?”

She turns the dial carefully. The voice flickers again,
half-swallowed by distortion.

RADIO VOICE (fragmented)
“If you can hear this... you are inside—the... resistance—
alive...”

The light from the radio bursts once, then dims back to its usual red pulse. She stares at it, motionless. The sound repeats again, warping each time, as if struggling to take form. She presses her palm against the side of the radio, almost afraid to breathe.

FRALEAN (quietly)
“No. That’s impossible.”

The woman steps back, her breath short and shallow. She seizes the notebook, and triangulates the location of the broadcast. She scrawls the coordinates with a jagged hand, then folds the paper and slips it into her pocket. The voice on the radio fractures mid-sentence before she cuts it off. She pulls on her coat and turns toward the glass. Her reflection stares back at her, pale blue under the flickering light that leaks from the city. She drags the suit from its hook and forces it on over her clothes. The zipper slices the air. The fabric feels foreign against her body, and the gloves hang stiffly from her wrists. Her fingers tighten around the cracked earpiece. She fits it in place, adjusts the dial until a faint hum answers. Then she leaves. The darkness dissolves into an overhead shot of a drone slicing through the mist above a building.

EPISODE 2: EXT. CITY SKY – NIGHT

The drone glides past the rooftop antennas, its red sensor lights cutting through the rain. Outside, the city glows through the fog. Neon cuts through the cold rain in the color of antiseptic blue. Drones move slowly overhead, their light scanning across the workers below where each figure is wrapped in white, and their heads tilted upward. They mistake her for one of them. Their eyes linger, drained of expression, like they’re waiting for instruction. She keeps her pace steady, her gaze fixed ahead, pretending not to feel their stare.

The streets lie emptied, lit only by the erratic pulse of lamps that have outlasted their purpose. The air carries a faint metallic tang, as though the city itself has been sealed.

Every storefront is shut tight, glass covered with grime that has begun to merge with the dust. Signs hang crooked, letters faded into anonymity. It is unclear if any of them had opened in weeks. A vending machine flickers near a wall, its display scrolling the same price list with mechanical patience. A strip of torn plastic drifts past, caught in the water, circling the reflection of a tower. Uniformed personnel move in small groups, slow and methodical, the rhythm of their steps muffled by the film of debris coating the ground.

Machines crawl through the flooded streets, carrying metal containers that hiss with steam. The workers move in rhythm, silent, synchronized. The woman steps between them, her reflection fractured in the puddles, her face blurred by ripples of water and light.

She looks past it. Far through the mist, the old university burns in white light. She tightens the coat around her and starts walking toward it.

FRALEAN (V.O.)

In times of war, the first casualty is truth. The second, or rather, the natural completion of its death, is memory.

Somewhere else, a gang of officers close in on a laborer, their boots sinking into the water, and their helmets lit by the same blue xenon glow that spills from the cars. The worker looks up through the curtain of water, his eyes caught in the wash. A baton presses into his shoulder, guiding him downward with deliberate pressure. When his knees meet the ground, the impact sends a shudder to the sound of the thunder.

FRALEAN (V.O.)

That is why the university had to go first. It was full of wasteful, old-world knowledge. Knowledge that was volatile. It made people dangerous and unpredictable.

“After the collapse, FACE turned the university into a data center. Without history, people could not question. FACE called it a purification of logic.

FADE OUT.

The scream of the worker lingers.

The words December 3. 2025 appear on the screen: Wind scours the dark alley. There are footsteps against the grim and damp pavement. The young woman moves through the shadow. She is wearing fitted cargo pants streaked with dust, a sleeveless top the color of old jade, and a black jacket that sticks close at the shoulders. Her boots are heavy and silent on the stone. A holster rests easy at her thigh, with a coil of instruments at her back, and her hair is tied away from her face, leaving her eyes sharp and restless in the dim light.

A sudden blue light spills in from the mouth of the lane. For a moment the color flashes, then it resolves and we see police in patrol armor, drones trailing behind them, sweeping the alley as they pass.

The woman darts into the nearest gap between two buildings, her steps splashing through shallow pools of rain. The blue light sweeps across the alley just behind her, catching the edge of her coat before fading. She presses through a side door, the metal creaking softly as it closes behind her.

Fralean presses herself against the corner of a broken
corridor, breath held, her hand gripping the strap of her bag. The mechanical hiss draws closer following a drone, then another. Their beams pass over the hallway entrance, red lines crawling across the walls like veins of heat. She lowers herself behind a pile of rusted filing cabinets, her reflection fractured across their dented surfaces.