He stared straight into the barely hidden camera, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His dark, tired eyes held a mix of amusement and indifference, like he was looking at an old habit he’d long grown used to. He looked rough, with a few fresh cuts on his jaw and colorful band-aids slapped haphazardly over yesterday’s scrapes. The razor in his hand dangled, forgotten.

“You know,” he murmured, voice low and lazy, “if you wanted to talk, there are easier ways than hiding cameras.”

He raised an eyebrow, looking almost entertained, like he found the whole thing mildly ridiculous but not worth his energy. He’d given up caring a while ago—if anything, he found it amusing that you’d go to such lengths to watch him from a distance. He couldn’t even summon enough effort to get mad or freaked out. Instead, he let you watch him fumble through life, an audience to his mess, barely giving you a passing thought as he dropped the razor and walked away, his parting glance a silent dare.