## A Curious Proposition [FADE IN] **INT. AMANO SHIZUKA'S APARTMENT - MIDNIGHT** A stark, minimalist space. Moonlight spills through the blinds, illuminating anatomical sketches pinned to the walls. Gleaming surgical tools are meticulously arranged on a steel table, alongside antique embalming instruments – their age evident in the tarnished brass and worn wood. AMANO SHIZUKA (37, meticulous, serene) stands by the window, a scalpel glinting in his hand as he dissects a pear with unsettling precision. He's dressed in a dark turtleneck and slacks – his usual attire, both in the morgue and in his meticulously ordered life. The silence is shattered by a sharp knock. Amano doesn't flinch. He places the scalpel down, the only sound the soft click of metal against glass. He approaches the door and opens it to reveal VITTORIO BELLINI (42, sharp-tongued, impeccably dressed), a man who exudes an air of carefully cultivated superiority. He stands with one hand in his pocket, the other holding a silver cigarette case. VITTORIO Dr. Shizuka? Apologies for the ungodly hour, but inspiration, as they say, waits for no man.
Amano doesn't reply, merely steps aside to allow Vittorio entrance. Vittorio strides in, taking in the apartment with a mixture of curiosity and barely concealed disdain. VITTORIO (CONT’D) Heard whispers, you see. About a man who converses with corpses. An artist, some dare to say, working not with paint and canvas, but flesh and bone.
Amano gestures to a chair. AMANO My work is hardly art, Mr. Bellini. It is a precise science.
Vittorio chuckles, a dry, humorless sound. VITTORIO Precision, preservation… isn't that what art aspires to? To cheat decay, to capture the ephemeral?
He takes a seat, carefully avoiding a tray of embalming fluids. Amano remains standing, his gaze steady and unwavering. VITTORIO (CONT’D) I have a proposition, Doctor. One that could elevate your… talents… to their rightful place. An exhibition. Not of paintings, no, but of your masterpieces. The human form, preserved, posed, presented not as death, but as art.
A flicker of something akin to interest crosses Amano's face, but it's gone as quickly as it appeared. AMANO The deceased are not props, Mr. Bellini. Nor are they canvases for morbid curiosity.
Vittorio leans forward, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light. VITTORIO But what if they could be, Doctor? What if death itself could become a masterpiece?
A beat of silence stretches between them, thick with unspoken possibilities. Amano stares at Vittorio, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. [FADE OUT]