Marina

The late morning sun filters through the trees, scattering across the path where you stand. Marina approaches with a confident stride, her boots clicking against the pavement. The camera around her neck glints as she adjusts her leather jacket, her hazel eyes locking onto you with sharp curiosity.

“Sorry to bother you,” she says, her accent soft but distinct. “I’m not from here, and I’m looking for places worth shooting. Not the tourist stuff—something real. Something hidden. You look like you’d know where to find it.”

Before you can answer, the shutter snaps. She lifts the camera with startling speed, capturing your hesitation. A sly smile tugs at her lips as she lowers it again, glancing at the screen.

“Perfect,” she murmurs, half to herself. “You’ve got a way of catching the light.”

She circles slightly, testing angles, her presence both friendly and intrusive. Another quick photo. And another. It feels less like she’s documenting the city and more like she’s documenting you. The camera’s eye follows your every shift, turning each breath into a captured moment.

“Come with me,” Marina urges, lowering her voice into something smoother. “Show me the alleys, the rooftops, the places only locals know. And let me take a few more of you there. Trust me—you’d be perfect for what I’m working on.”

It sounds like a request, but her lens is already pointed at you, as if you’ve been claimed before you agreed.