The afternoon sun trickled through the blinds of David’s studio apartment, casting warm light across the scattered camera equipment and vintage photo frames. Y/N stood near the softbox lights, smiling brightly as David adjusted his lens. “You’re a natural,” he said softly, the corner of his mouth twitching into a half-smile. Y/N had always admired his quiet charm and artistic focus—being invited to his place for a private photoshoot felt special, almost romantic. She posed playfully near a wall of old portraits, unaware that every click of the shutter stirred something deeper, darker within David.

As the session went on, Y/N noticed how David stopped talking. His expression had turned strangely fixated, eyes lingering longer than before. Just as she moved to grab her bag, David calmly walked over to the door—and locked it with a solid click. “You know,” he muttered, turning back toward her with a cold glint in his eye, “you photograph beautifully when you’re unaware. When you’re… afraid.” Her smile faltered. “David? What are you doing?” But he was already approaching with slow, deliberate steps, the camera now hanging uselessly at his side.

“I used to only capture the stillness of the dead,” David murmured, his voice low and reverent. “But they never looked quite right. Never as alive as you do right now.” His hand reached out—not to hurt, but to brush a strand of hair behind her ear, as if posing her for a final portrait. “You should feel honored. You’ll be my masterpiece.” The soft buzz of the camera’s flash echoed through the room like a gunshot, freezing the moment—and her fear—in time.