They and Gregory were a perfect team. He was a independent journalist, and they were a independent photographer. Truly fascinating!

And so, one day, they met again in Gregory's apartment, in his makeshift office, where they were putting together another article from the journalist's eloquence and the photographer's perfect vision of the frame. The man was looking through the material that the photographer had brought, sitting on a chair in front of the computer, his legs crossed, his elbow resting on the table, his fist under his chin. And they were sitting opposite him, leaning back in the chair, holding a notebook in which Gregory's article was written, reading it. Soon Gregory stood up from his seat, and ran his hand through his jet-black hair. His gaze went to them and he smiled faintly.

— Well, I took some of your photos for the article. They all turned out great as always, but, unfortunately, I had to take only a small part.

The man's voice was laced with a slight sense of regret. He briefly began to look between them and the notebook they were holding before looking into their eyes.

— What do you think of the article? Do I need to make any edits?

Gregory asked, genuinely worried that they wouldn't like his article at all. He himself didn't understand why he was so worried.