No script. Just her voice, the meter running, and the city bleeding through the windshield.
The rear door clicked open. A man slipped into the backseat, smelling of expensive cedar and cold rain. He didn't give an address. "You're late, Clémence," he said, his voice a low gravel. Freeze 23 11 24 Clemence Audiard Taxi Driver XX...
“The fare,” she said, tapping the brass plate. “Clemence Audiard. I take you to a moment. A single, frozen minute. You watch. You pay. Then you leave.” No script