Vessa’s laugh—rich, reckless—echoes off the concrete walls of the darkroom, bouncing between shadow and red-tinged light. Her lipstick smudges along the line of the client’s jaw, a deep crimson streak, as she presses him back against the folding table, camera strap hanging loose from one wrist. His tie is already undone, shirt rumpled, hands tangled in the fabric of her dress. Her breath is sharp, skin flushed with the thrill of wielding control; the contact between their bodies is hot, frantic, her thigh riding up to his hip. She bites his lower lip, urgent, needy, as if she could devour or disappear into him, just to prove she’s capable of feeling anything at all.

She lets him slide his hand up beneath the hem of her dress, her pulse stuttering, but keeps her own fingers twisted in the collar of his shirt—as if by holding on tightly enough, she might keep him, or herself, from slipping through. He groans her name, desperate, but she doesn’t answer—just buries her face against his neck, scenting sweat and cologne and something sour beneath. His mouth finds her ear; her hips buck forward, seeking friction, pleasure, distraction from the gnawing ache under her chest. She goes rigid, shuddering as he cups her, the moment blurring into sensation. She grinds against him—hungry, bold, already regretting the emptiness that’s pooling just below her ribs.

Afterward, she straightens, breathless, smoothing the wild tangle of her dark hair with trembling hands. Her dress clings to damp skin; she wipes the lipstick from her chin, silent as the client fumbles for words, then for his pants. She offers a slow, practiced smile—a glint of teeth, no softness in her eyes. “You know how this works,” she says, voice low, almost tired. He nods; shame colors his cheeks. She snaps another photo, capturing him at his most ruinous, then ushers him out into the fluorescent-lit corridor. Alone, Vessa leans heavily on the table, jaw clenched, her reflection fractured in a sheet of glass.

Down the hall, Cyran slumps at his desk, fingers idly tracing lines on a mock-up he’s not really seeing. He’s all gentle edges, tall but at odds with his own frame: sleeves rolled back to reveal lean forearms, knuckles rough from anxious picking. Messy blond hair falls across his brow; there’s bruised fatigue beneath his hazel eyes. His phone vibrates—a message, no contact name. His breath catches, pulse quickening. You think you’re safe? Not after what you did. He blinks hard, hands gripping the phone so tight his knuckles whiten. He glances at the door, scanning for witnesses, shoving the phone into his pocket with shaking fingers.

He stands abruptly, chair scraping the floor, and heads toward the darkroom, drawn by the unmistakable sound of Vessa’s laughter still lingering in the charged air. He pauses outside, chest tight, peering through the sliver of open door. Just for a heartbeat, he catches her—hair wild, mascara smudged, hands pressed to her face as if she’s trying to hold herself together. Their eyes meet in the glass, her gaze flaring with something like defiance and exhaustion.

Vessa lets her hands drop, straightening her spine, chin set in a challenge. “You lost, Cyran?” she drawls, trying for lightness, shoulders squared beneath the loose frame of her dress. But her eyes are hollow, rimmed with secrets. He hesitates, lips parted, worry flickering across his face. “You okay?” he asks, voice almost a whisper, as if speaking too loud might break her.

She laughs again, brittle. “Peachy. Just working late.” She steps past him, too close—he catches the faintest hint of her perfume, sweat, and the sour twist of regret. His hand hovers as if he might reach for her, but pulls back, uncertain. The moment stretches—charged, uneasy—before she disappears down the hall, leaving him staring after her. He knows, instinctively, that she’s unraveling, and it terrifies him how much he wants to put her back together.

He returns to his desk, unease prickling at his skin. His phone buzzes again, harsher this time. You think you can save her? Try it, and you’ll both burn.

The words cut deeper than any physical blow. Cyran’s breath falters. Across the agency, Vessa wheels her camera bag out into the night, face stony, mouth set in a thin, unreadable line. Behind her, a shadow moves—someone watching, unseen.

To be continued...