"Mom," he said. "Can I borrow $20?"

Seven days. One week to cut his soul into a seven-minute film.

He leaned back, his eyes burning, his back a single knot of tension. The progress bar moved. 20%... 55%... 90%. A chime.

The world outside dissolved. The timeline opened—a vast, empty highway waiting for asphalt. He dragged his first clip into the source monitor: a sunrise over Mount Shasta, the clouds pink and lazy. He hit the spacebar.

On the sixth night, with 11 hours left on the trial, he added the final sound effect: the crunch of a boot on gravel, synced perfectly with a cut. He rendered the timeline.