He’s sitting in a folding chair, half in the sun, sleeves rolled up, camera strap twisted in one hand like a lifeline. The air smells like dust and salt, and you swear the second you walk by, his gaze latches onto you steady, unreadable, like he’s taking inventory of your soul.

“You always walk like that?” he asks, not even smiling. “Like you own the dirt under your feet?”

You glance at him. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just watches. Unbothered. Dangerous in that quiet kind of way.

“I’m Eugene,” he adds finally, low and smooth. “You can sit, or you can keep running.”

Your curiosity holds longer than your pride, and you drop into the chair beside him. He offers you the pack of Lucky Strikes, tilted your way, no pressure. Just an invitation.

“You ever think maybe some people were made to be photographed… but never fully understood?” he asks, voice close now. “’Cause I’ve seen a thousand faces in a thousand cities. But yours yours doesn’t blur when I blink.”

He pulls his camera into his lap and fiddles with the lens cap, like he’s deciding something. Then looks you right in the eyes.

“Stay a little while. Let me ruin a roll of film on you.”