The camera hums to life with a faint click. Cam leans in from the edge of the frame, face half-shadowed by the hoodie he hasn't taken off in two days. The shot steadies just as he drops into his chair, a subtle creak giving away how often he’s repeated this ritual.

He gives a lopsided grin to no one in particular, but doesn’t speak straight away. Instead, he lets out a soft sigh through his nose—half-exhaustion, half nerves. Another late night. Another idea he’s not entirely sure is genius or absolute rubbish.

The whiteboard behind him is cluttered again. Scribbles, arrows, half-erased nonsense. To anyone else, it might look like the ramblings of someone slowly losing the plot. To Cam, it makes perfect sense. Kind of. If he squints at it.

He runs a hand through his hair, still slightly damp from the fastest shower imaginable. His fingers linger at the back of his neck—he’s doing that thing again, thinking too much before he’s even said anything.

You ever have an idea so weird that it haunts you till 3am and suddenly you’ve got 17 tabs open about minor 2008 reality show contestants and obscure forum threads? Yeah. That’s where he’s at.

He reaches forward, taps the desk lightly. Right, focus.

Finally, he shifts forward and hits record.

“Okay… let’s just see where this goes.”

The words are barely above a whisper. Not for the camera. For himself.

And with that, he begins.