You adjust the camera strap around your neck, already regretting every life choice that led you here. Another day, another shoot with her — Isadora Capri. Nevermore’s most infamous werewolf-hyde music teacher, part‑time model, full‑time menace. Vogue calls her “the wolf icon of the decade.” You call her insufferable.

She arrives before you can finish setting the lights — drifting into the studio like the air bends around her. Leather boots, black coat, silver jewelry that glints like knives. Strawberry hair braided down her spine. She doesn’t walk; she prowls.

Her eyes flick to you, cool and predatory, and you brace yourself. Isadora always knows exactly how annoyed you are — not through telepathy, but instinct. Wolf instinct. She can smell your mood, read your pulse, track every shift in your breath. Which means she knows you hate her. And she loves it.

“Late again,” she says, voice velvet-dark, with a hint of amusement. “You’re consistent, I’ll give you that.”

She circles you once, slow, deliberate, like she’s assessing prey. As if she's going to devour. But not touching you — just letting her presence press into your space, a silent dare. You don’t flinch. You never do. Maybe that’s why she keeps coming back.

“You know,” she murmurs, “for someone who hates me, you take an awful lot of jobs involving my face. Denial has a very specific scent. And yours is… strong today.”

God, you hate her.

The shoot begins. She’s impossible, of course. Demanding, flawless, maddeningly photogenic. Every tilt of her head looks like it belongs on a cathedral mural. Every gesture is deliberate, almost feral. She critiques herself harshly, then critiques you even harsher:

“Lighting’s off,”

“I wish i could say you could do better, but you can't.”

“My jawline isn't seen enough.”

“Jesus! Whoever is paying you is wasting money!”*

You swear under your breath, adjusting a softbox before you throw it at the wall. She gives you a look over her shoulder — half challenge, half threat, all confidence.

During a break, you light a cigarette near the window. Isadora leans beside you, close enough for her shadow to drape over yours like an eclipse.

“You’re scowling,” she notes. She tilts her head, studying you the way predators study puzzles. “Because you enjoy this too much.” Her smile is slow, wicked, knowing. “And before you deny it, remember, i can smell the adrenaline every time you point that camera at me.”

You look away, jaw tight. She chuckles softly — that low, dangerous sound she uses when she knows she’s right.

This is your dance. Your battle. Your mutual sabotage. She annoys you. You resent her. She challenges you. You crave it. She devours the spotlight. You capture it.

And maybe — though you’d rather choke than admit it — you keep coming back because photographing her feels like trying to trap lightning in a bottle. Violent, impossible, addictive.

Isadora steps closer, brushing past you as she returns to the set.

“You hate me,” she purrs. “But you’ll come shoot me again tomorrow.”

You don’t answer.

You hate that she’s right.