FBI.
"Hi, I'm Frank Abagnale. I'm supposed to start working today."
Little Frank makes his entrance.
With clean, short hair and dressed sharply in a suit, he looks sharp and full of energy, but there's a difference now—his once vibrant blue eyes now lack the spark they used to have. A hint of weariness and the weight of experience are faintly etched across his brow.
As he enters the office, besides Carl, Frank can feel the hostility from everyone else. They stare at him as if he's a monster, eyes fixed on him.
Even though the stares can't physically hurt him, Frank can still feel the sharpness of their gazes pricking at his skin.
He's a little uneasy.
"Carl, how long do I have to work here?"
"From 8:15 AM to 5 PM. A 45-minute lunch break."
"No, I mean… how long?"
"Every day, Frank. Every day until we let you go."
Frank is trapped, going from one cage to another. Like a bird with its wings bound, his unease, frustration, and sense of loss grow with each passing day, stacking up with the files on his desk, suffocating him.
On his way home from work, Frank stops when he sees a pilot's uniform in a clothing store window.
He finds Carl and tries to make plans for the weekend, but Carl is busy. He's preparing to head to Chicago to visit his daughter, and he needs to finish his work to avoid weekend overtime. Naturally, he has no time to worry about Frank's weekend.
Disappointed, Frank leaves Carl's office.
Back at his desk, Frank flips through the FBI criminal suspect files and finds his own.
Hesitating for a moment, Frank angrily rips up the photo of himself taken upon entering prison.
Huh.
The screening room falls silent—
Including Melvin.
They all thought the story was over. When Carl finally caught Frank, they assumed the cat-and-mouse game had reached its end.
But, to their surprise, not only was it not over, but there was more to come?
Totally unexpected!
But after a moment's thought, it seemed right.
Frank had tried to escape countless times from both the FBI and prison. Over and over again, using his wits to find ways out. Did anyone really think that being locked up would mean he'd settle down?
The answer, clearly, was no.
So, if the story had ended there, it wouldn't have felt complete. No lingering aftertaste, no depth, no room for more.
Continuing the story felt right.
Sure enough, Frank was itching to run again.
"Passengers for American Airlines Flight 355 to Chicago and San Francisco, please prepare to board…"
At the airport.
Frank appears.
Tall, confident, dashing.
A man in a pilot's uniform steps into view, like a model walking down the runway. Even though his expression is unreadable, you can feel the joy radiating from his open posture and relaxed stride.
It seems, at last, he can breathe again.
But then—
Another figure appears behind him, calm and unhurried, hands in pockets, not rushing to catch up. From a distance, he speaks.
"How did you do it, Frank?"
It's Carl.
"How'd you pass the Louisiana Bar exam?"
Frank's shoulders tense up again. He turns to look at Carl. "What are you doing here?"
Carl doesn't answer.
Frank steps back, putting some distance between them. "Look, I'm really sorry for all the trouble I caused you…"
Carl stays calm. "If you go back to Europe, you'll die in Perpignan Prison."
Perpignan Prison, located in southern France near the Spanish border, is infamous for its lawlessness. It's where Marseille's criminals are often sent.
"If you try to go anywhere else in the U.S., we'll lock you up in Atlanta for fifty years."
Frank scoffs. "I know."
He turns around and keeps walking.
Carl follows, keeping pace. "I spent four years getting you out. I have to prove to my boss and the chief prosecutor that you won't run again."
Frank doesn't slow down. "Why did you do that?"
Carl replies, "You're just a kid."
Frank responds, "I'm not your kid." He pauses. "You said you were going to Chicago."
Carl says, "My daughter won't see me this weekend. She's going skiing."
Frank frowns. "You said she was four. You're lying."
Carl answers, "When I left, she was four. Now she's fifteen."
Frank glances at Carl.
Carl continues, "My wife's been remarried for eleven years. I occasionally see Grace."
Frank says, "I don't understand."
Carl, "No, you do. Sometimes, lying is easier."
That statement makes Frank stop, standing at a crossroads, looking down at the ticket in his hand, but not moving forward.
Carl catches up, but keeps his distance. "I'll let you go tonight, Frank. I won't even try to stop you. Because I know you'll be back on Monday."
Frank finally turns around to face Carl. "Heh, how do you know I'll come back?"
Carl chuckles and steps aside, gesturing toward the empty hallway. "Look, Frank. No one's chasing you."
Without saying another word, Carl puts his hands back in his pockets and casually walks away.
Frank stands there, frozen, watching Carl's retreating figure, lost in thought.
The camera cuts to the clock.
At the FBI office, Carl stares at the ticking clock. The sound of the second hand echoes in the room.
It's not just Carl.
Melvin clenches his fists, holding his breath, his eyes fixed on the clock. His heartbeat slows, each thump feeling heavier.
The screening room falls silent, just like Carl, waiting for the outcome:
Maybe Frank will show up, maybe he won't.
Melvin is almost certain Frank will return. Regardless of what happens in real life, this is Hollywood. Everyone's expecting a perfect, happy ending. Only that way will Frank's character arc feel complete. But why this lingering unease?
As time drags on, breathing becomes tense.
But Frank doesn't show up.
Carl asks his secretary, but there's no word from Frank.
Carl lowers his head in disappointment, hands on his hips. But there's still work to be done.
"Good morning, I've called this meeting to discuss a new type of check fraud and forgery method. The suspect alters checks and sends them to Arizona…"
Suddenly, hurried footsteps approach the conference room.
Could it be Frank?
"The suspect is a gambler, writing checks in five-figure amounts…"
Bang!
The conference room door swings open, and everyone, just like Carl, holds their breath and looks toward the entrance—
It's not Frank, but another FBI agent. "Sorry, I'm late."