Marcus
Hailey Jameson intrigues me.
Not in the way most women do, of course. I've had plenty of those. The kind that look at me with wide eyes, hoping to catch my attention, dreaming of covers and center spreads.
Disposable ambitions, all of them.
But Hailey is different. There's a rawness to her work that can't be taught. A perspective that cuts through the glossy artifice most photographers hide behind. She sees things—really sees them.
I lean back in my chair, reviewing the security footage from last night. The camera sweeps across the empty studio, shadows stretching like fingers across the concrete floor. Nothing seems unusual. Yet someone was here, taking those photos, watching us all.
I pause the tape, focusing on a flicker of movement near the equipment room. There, a shadow moving where it shouldn't be. I rewind, slow it down. The figure is careful, staying just out of the camera's full view.
