"When he showed up at The Mistress again, I knew I would know him for a long time. Perhaps, he could become a regular."

On the screen, Les Vigne welcomed The Photographer as he walked in through the door of the pub.

"I inquired about his living arrangements, and he informed me about the place he had rented. It was a small, filthy apartment on a street at the edge of The Outskirts."

The bartender added a plate of fried potato wedges to his order.

"On the house," he said.

"He hadn't yet found a job, so I recommended him to collect junk while he searched for one."

The Photographer looked up from his plate. "Does it pay well?"

"Depends. Paper compensates well. Metal not so much. Wood is the best."

"And where would I find this junk?"

"Anywhere, really."

"The streets of the ground floor weren't known for their cleanliness. And considering where he lived, I knew he would not have a hard time diving into trash."

"Anywhere is fine, but don't go to the lower floors," Les warned. "They have gangs who don't like anyone encroaching on their territory."

"I will only be collecting metal, though?"

"That's what they don't like."

"Lower floors weren't kind to anyone. The gangs selected never to sell illicit substances there, not out of ethics, but because no one had money to buy anything in that hell."

The screen turned dark.

"Unfortunately…"

The screen flashed.

"That advice led him to a different sort of hell."

The flashes came to an end, dissolving into a close-up of The Photographer.

He was looking up at the burning star in the sky. It felt so real, yet it was not.

It burned his retinas, yet he didn't look away. What form of madness had come over him to try to ruin his eyes, only he could understand.

The sound of a heavy, whiny gate opening rang through the air.

"You may go in."

He looked back. Unable to adjust instantly, he could barely make out anything through the dark spots in his vision.

He nodded at the sentry, servant, guard, or whoever it was.

"He tried his hand at collecting junk, or so he told me."

After sparing a glance at the artificial sun, The Photographer made his way past the gates and towards the vast estate it tried to protect.

"But there never was enough to earn him even a single meal."

He made his way towards the mansion, fancifully decorated with piers and annexes.

"'Artist required.' So read the announcement he had chosen to answer."

"Please wait here for a moment," the thin-moustached servant leading him said.

He went in and closed the door behind him.

The Photographer looked around. Spotting a garden bench on the grass near the path, he took a seat.

He closed his eyes, trying to recover from his earlier recklessness.

"He had walked into a place no one dared enter."

Sensing a presence, his eyes flew open.

Standing over him was a breathtaking woman dressed in a blood-red cotton turtleneck, her bottom half covered with pants.

Her eyes peered into his, and for a split moment, the man felt as if she was intruding into his mind.

"Who are you?" she asked in a quiet voice.

It was a delicate yet charming voice.

"He had walked into the De Roschillian household."

With a face full of curiosity, the woman leaned down, her earrings clinking like wind chimes.

She looked slightly older than him, with the air of maturity one would expect from an attorney.

From the corner of his eye, Averie looked at the woman beside him.

'Don't be smug now.'

Indeed, Josephine Petite was looking at the scene with satisfaction.

"That's when he met her."

His breath stolen, his lips twitched wordlessly.

Feeling the eyes of the servants on him, he wiped his mouth and cleared his throat.

"An artist…"

Not once had he shown as much emotion since the beginning of the movie.

Averie didn't like playing bumbling idiots, but this one wasn't one.

'Getting flustered because of an older lady? Totally acceptable.'

He liked older ladies—something about wine and ageing.

"Are you?" She glanced at his attire. "Are you answering the call?"

"Yes."

About to say something, her lips parted, but she thought better of it. She circled the bench before giving a nod of approval, then took a seat beside him.

"I am Marianne de Roschillian, daughter to Anselme de Roschillian."

The Photographer knew about him. Les had informed him about the most dangerous men of The City, and at the top of the list was the head of the De Roschillian family.

Anselme was the most famous man in the noble circles. For nearly a century, he had been the head of the De Roschillian family and was responsible for most of their fortunes.

Marianne crossed her legs, her high heels drawing a half-circle in the air.

"Do you know now where you are?" she said.

"De Roschillian family manor."

"Did no one advise you against coming here?"

He kept his mouth quiet, trying not to meet her gaze.

"I see. So, they did." She leaned closer and looked him in the eye. "You are brave for someone who doesn't look it."

She was taller than him, not to mention bigger.

It truly showed how much Averie had died to look like a husk of a man.

'Did those high heels not hurt?' Averie wondered. 'I've no idea how she managed to walk straight after each take.'

Averie, too, had to endure pain to create the illusion of disparity in height. He had to sit a certain way, and the crew had created special props for their scenes together.

But Averie thought it was Josephine who had truly endured the most.

In some manner, he admired Marianne de Roschillian as much as his flustered moving picture did.

"What's your name?" Marianne asked.

A heavy gust of wind blew as The Photographer's lips moved.

He uttered a name the audience wasn't privy to. Only those who could read lips had any chance of knowing it.

Marianne smiled pleasantly.

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