$FEFILM見てはいけない心電図 / Forbidden ECG
A Tokyo salaryman who cancels his health-subscription app receives a 50% discount laced with a forbidden ECG that proves his heart is no longer his own.
A Tokyo salaryman who cancels his health-subscription app receives a 50% discount laced with a forbidden ECG that proves his heart is no longer his own.
Synopsis
When salaryman Haruto cancels his premium life-monitoring subscription, the company responds with an irresistible three-month discount and an email that reads like a dare. He accepts, only to receive a single attached ECG labeled DO NOT OPEN. The waveform shows impossible spikes that match his exact pulse in real time. As colleagues and family begin vanishing after similar cancellations, Haruto realizes the app never tracked his heart—it controlled it.
The story
Haruto cancels, receives the discount and the forbidden file; the first anomalous heartbeat occurs during a routine train ride.
He infiltrates the app’s underground server facility, discovers the ECG is a kill-switch for non-compliant subscribers, and is forced to fake his own death to stay alive.
Cornered in the hospital where the final retention offer is made, Haruto uploads his own corrupted ECG to the entire network, forcing the company into mass cardiac arrest and freeing every remaining user.
The cast
Mid-level office drone whose only rebellion is clicking cancel; his curiosity becomes a death sentence.
dream cast: Ryo Kase
Former cardiologist now heading retention algorithms; she designed the ECG as both leash and weapon.
dream cast: Eiko Koike
Charming subscription manager who speaks only in discounts and veiled threats.
dream cast: Hiroyuki Sanada
Haruto’s wife whose own subscription status becomes the ultimate leverage against him.
dream cast: Yui Aragaki
Disembodied voice that answers every cancellation attempt with personalized lethal offers.
dream cast: voiced by Ken Watanabe
Dream crew
in the style of David Fincher + icy precision and digital dread
in the style of Charlie Kaufman + recursive identity paranoia
in the style of Trent Reznor + pulsing synthetic dread
Cold open
INT. TOKYO METRO CAR - NIGHT HARUTO (38) scrolls his phone, thumb hovering over CANCEL SUBSCRIPTION. The train hums. His phone pings. EMAIL SUBJECT: 3 MONTHS 50% OFF — JUST FOR YOU. He smiles, clicks ACCEPT. A second attachment appears: ECG_0427 — DO NOT OPEN. Curious, he taps it. The waveform spikes violently. Haruto’s chest tightens in perfect sync. Around him, passengers blur. The ECG flatlines for one full second—then restarts. His phone vibrates again. TEXT: Welcome back, Haruto. Your heart thanks you.
Why now
Subscription fatigue has become existential dread; audiences are desperate for a thriller that weaponizes the exact pop-ups and retention emails they delete every morning.
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Screenplay draft
Title: 見てはいけない心電図 / Forbidden ECG Credit: Author: Draft date: Contact: FADE IN. INT. RYOTA'S APARTMENT - NIGHT Three monitors glow on a low kotatsu table in the twelve-tatami room. Pinned Runway invoices cover one beige wall. A futon lies half-unrolled in the corner. RYOTA NAKAMURA, 34, sits cross-legged in a faded white dress shirt missing the top button and gray chinos. His short black hair shows premature gray at the temples. Laptop tan shadows his face. The center monitor displays the Runway billing page. A red CANCEL SUBSCRIPTION button pulses under the cursor. Cheap earbuds leak the steady beep of his own heart-rate app. The sound sits low, slightly out of sync with the real thump in his chest. Ryota's finger hovers above the trackpad. He leans closer. The left monitor shows an open spreadsheet of monthly subscription totals. The right monitor runs a muted LINE group chat. His breathing stays shallow. RYOTA (whispering) Just click it. He clicks. The screen flashes green: SUBSCRIPTION ENDED. Before the color fades, a new browser tab auto-opens. Subject line in bold neon pink: 3ヶ月50％OFF – 続けませんか？ Ryota laughs once, short. The laugh dies in his throat. He reaches for his phone to screenshot the offer. The phone screen lights up. A second email pings in, no subject, only body text: 「退会大会エントリー完了。パッチをお送りします。」 The heart-rate app in his earbuds speeds up by two beats. Ryota stares at the monitors. The green confirmation lingers. The pink discount banner slides across the new tab. He exhales the last word twice under his breath. RYOTA Ended. Ended. A knock sounds at the door. Ryota freezes. The earbuds keep beeping. The monitors cast clinical white and aggressive neon pink across his face. The room stays dim except for the three glowing screens and the faint red flash that begins to pulse from somewhere under his shirt. INT. RYOTA'S APARTMENT - NIGHT Three monitors cast monitor-blue light across the twelve-tatami room. Pinned Runway invoices flutter on the wall above the kotatsu. RYOTA NAKAMURA sits cross-legged in a faded white dress shirt missing the top button. Gray chinos bunch at his knees. His right index finger hovers above the red CANCEL SUBSCRIPTION button on the center screen. A cheap earbud in his left ear leaks the steady beep of his own heart-rate app. The sound desyncs slightly with the actual thump in his chest. RYOTA (whispering) Just click it. He clicks. The screen flashes green. SUBSCRIPTION ENDED. The green holds for half a second. A new browser tab auto-opens on top of it. White background. Neon-pink header. Large text: 3ヶ月50％OFF – 続けませんか？ A smaller line underneath reads: 限定オファー。今日だけです。 Ryota exhales once. He reaches for the phone beside the kotatsu, thumb already moving to open LINE. The cursor on the second tab pulses. A second tab opens beside the first. No subject line. Body text only: 退会大会エントリー完了。パッチをお送りします。 The heart-rate app in his earbud spikes. One sharp beep cuts through the low fan hum. Ryota stares at the two tabs. His finger drifts back toward the trackpad, then stops. The room stays dim except for the pink glow now leaking from the center monitor. INT. RYOTA'S APARTMENT - NIGHT Three monitors glow on the low kotatsu. RYOTA NAKAMURA, 34, sits cross-legged in a faded white dress shirt missing the top button. The center screen shows the Runway billing page now replaced by a bright green confirmation: SUBSCRIPTION ENDED. His cheap earbuds leak the steady beep of his own heart-rate app. Ryota laughs once, short and dry. The sound dies in the hum of cooling fans. He reaches for his phone, thumb already opening the LINE group chat. The first email sits open on the left monitor, subject line pulsing in aggressive neon pink: 3ヶ月50％OFF – 続けませんか？ RYOTA (whispering) Screenshot. Just send it. His finger hovers over the reply button, then drifts toward delete. The cursor on the center monitor drifts with it. RYOTA Forward to the group. Or quit. Quit. Forward. Quit. The second email arrives without subject. Body text only, white letters on clinical white: 「退会大会エントリー完了。パッチをお送りします。」 A red ECG waveform icon blinks once at the bottom. Ryota’s hand freezes above the phone. The earbud beeps skip once, then settle back into rhythm. He leans closer, reading the line twice under his breath. RYOTA Taikai taikai.大会. They want the pulse. They want the pulse. He scrolls the email thread, thumb pausing on the attachment preview: a small cardboard box icon labeled Runway Heart. The monitor blue light reflects off his permanent laptop tan. Outside the single window, Chiyoda traffic drones low and steady. A knock sounds at the door. Three firm raps. The ECG icon on screen flashes arterial red. Ryota stares at the door, then back at the phone. His finger still hovers between reply and delete. RYOTA (quieter) Just click it. Just click it. The knock repeats, louder. The heart-rate app in his earbuds begins to desync, one beat arriving late. INT. RYOTA'S APARTMENT - NIGHT Three monitors cast monitor-blue light across the twelve-tatami room. Runway invoices pin the far wall in uneven rows. The futon lies half-unrolled beside the low kotatsu. Ryota Nakamura stands at the door in his faded white dress shirt, top button missing, gray chinos wrinkled from the day. One cheap earbud dangles from his left ear, leaking the steady electronic beep of his heart-rate app. A second knock lands, sharp against the cooling-fan hum. Ryota exhales once, short. He turns the knob. A plain cardboard box sits on the genkan tile, Runway Heart logo printed in aggressive neon pink. No courier remains. The box is light, no thicker than a paperback. Ryota picks it up, earbud still beeping in time with his pulse. He carries it to the kotatsu and sets it down between two monitors. The center screen still shows the green confirmation: SUBSCRIPTION ENDED. The second tab pulses with the unread Japanese subject line. RYOTA (whispering) Just a box. Just a box. He slices the tape with a key. Inside rests a slim ECG patch, matte black, adhesive side up, the size of a credit card. A tiny screen on the patch face glows arterial red once, then dark. A folded instruction card reads in clean corporate type: Wear during all cancellation attempts for optimal discount. Ryota holds the patch under the monitor light. The earbud beep continues, steady, unhurried. He turns the patch over. A small speaker grille stares back. He laughs once, the same short sound from earlier, then stops. RYOTA (under breath) Discount. Discount. The patch emits a single soft chime that matches the earbud tone for three beats before falling silent. Ryota places it back in the box and slides the lid closed. The apartment fans hum. The monitors stay open. The earbud keeps its low, even rhythm. EXT. KONBINI - NIGHT Ryota Nakamura and Yumi Watanabe stand under the konbini’s buzzing fluorescent sign. The automatic doors hiss open and shut behind a salaryman buying cigarettes. Steam curls from two paper coffee cups on the low metal ledge. Ryota’s earbud still leaks a faint, steady beep. His white shirt is wrinkled at the elbows. RYOTA I hit confirm. Screen went green. Then another tab opened by itself. YUMI (quick sip, single-syllable laugh) Auto-redirect. Classic retention stack. What did the subject say? RYOTA Three months half off. I laughed. Screenshot it for the group. Then the second mail came. No subject. Just body text about some tournament. Patch coming tomorrow. He holds the phone toward her. The screen glows monitor-blue against the pink neon of the nearby vending machine. Yumi leans in, wireless earbuds still in, Runway tote slung over one shoulder. YUMI You forwarded it yet? RYOTA Finger hovered. Delete or reply. Couldn’t decide. YUMI (sets cup down, voice clipped) They don’t want your money, they want your pulse. Ryota’s earbud beeps once, louder, then settles. A truck passes, its headlights washing the pavement arterial red for a second. Yumi watches th … (sign in to read + edit the full draft)
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