INT. FRANK & CHARLIE'S APARTMENT — NIGHT
The apartment is dim, cluttered, and smells vaguely of damp carpet and stale beer. Frank stands at the fridge, violently jamming groceries inside with no logic whatsoever. Eggs crush lettuce. Beer cans wedge against milk cartons. A raw steak lies bare on the middle shelf, glistening.
Charlie enters, exhausted, immediately scavenging.
CHARLIE
You eat already?
FRANK
I don't eat alone. It's sad.
Charlie opens the fridge.
And there it is.
The black egg dominates the shelf. Its yellow spirals catch the light. The red dots seem darker now. The hum is subtle but constant, vibrating through the fridge like a held breath.
A long beat.
CHARLIE
…Frank.
FRANK
What.
CHARLIE
What's uh… what's with that one.
Frank squints at the egg, stalling.
FRANK
I think it's one of them century eggs.
Charlie nods slowly, visibly relieved.
CHARLIE
Yeah. That tracks. They age 'em wrong on purpose.
FRANK
It's cultural.
Frank slams the fridge shut.
FRANK
Don't touch it. It's fermenting.
Charlie salutes solemnly.
CHARLIE
I respect fermentation.
CUT TO BLACK.