Day 46 – Hour 006"Light in Motion – Part I"
Vex was already whistling when I arrived.
He leaned against the shop's outer gate with a paper bag in one hand and a thermos in the other, grinning like someone who had just remembered a good joke but decided not to tell it.
"Perfect timing," he said, pushing off the wall. "You've been cooped up in that darkroom too long. Today we learn how the city moves."
I blinked. "We're leaving?"
"Outdoors," he nodded. "With people. Real light. Real timing. Real chaos. You ready?"
I didn't answer. He didn't wait.
The air had already started warming as we stepped into the outer streets. It wasn't even late morning, but the slums were awake in every direction: men patching tin roofs, women hauling crates stacked too high, children carrying smaller children.
Vex adjusted the strap on his shoulder, camera swaying gently by his hip.
"You see it?" he asked.
"What?"
"The rhythm."
I didn't.
"Look again."
We passed by two fruit vendors shouting different prices for the same bananas. A trio of young boys darted past, kicking a punctured can. A man slouched behind a wheelbarrow full of cracked tiles, mumbling to himself in a language I didn't recognize.
Vex slowed near a corner and gestured.
"That's your first frame."
I stared at the wall. A line of drying clothes fluttered behind a hunched woman who paused mid-step, reaching into a rusted mailbox. Her shadow was tangled with the laundry's.
"What am I capturing?"
"Not her. Not the clothes. The hesitation."
We spent the next two hours like that. Walking, watching. Framing.
Vex didn't correct me much — just nudged. He never said "wrong," only "try again."
At one point, he stopped to buy roasted beans from a cart with a crooked umbrella. He paid, tipped, and handed me half without asking. I hadn't eaten breakfast. The warmth hit my gut like borrowed peace.
"I always feed my apprentices," he said casually. "Even the ones who don't realize they're mine yet."
We turned east past a drainage canal where light bounced in strange loops. A man jogged past. Vex raised his camera without warning and clicked.
"What was that?"
"Ghost steps," he said, rewinding. "You'll see when we develop it."
By midday, we reached a narrow bridge that overlooked the main roadway through the slums. Dust swirled up with every gust of wind. Vex leaned on the rail, tossing bread crumbs into the dirt below.
Kids appeared like clockwork.
"Lunch?" he asked, still watching the crumbs vanish.
"I have some cash."
Vex shook his head and wagged a finger. "Not today."
He bought two paper-wrapped sandwiches and two bottles of murky water from a stand nearby, waving off the shopkeeper when he tried to charge more.
"He's overcharging," Vex said. "Only because you're new."
"I've been here my whole life."
"Doesn't mean they see you yet."
We sat on a cracked bench shaded by a half-dead tree.
I adjusted my lens. He adjusted his shoes.
Then, casually, I asked:
"Why don't we use digital cameras with storage?"
Vex chuckled before I even finished the question.
"Oh, Nemi."
He leaned back, squinting toward the overcast sky.
"It's because our employers can trace an analog source."
Then he winked.
Like it was obvious.
I didn't respond right away.
A slow chill spread under my ribs. Not from fear — not yet — but from realization.
Employers.
Plural.
But the way he said it, the way he smiled afterward, made something in my brain freeze.
He knew.
Or at least he thought I knew.
The Club.
He had to mean them.
"I thought analog was supposed to be untraceable," I muttered, more to myself than him.
"Exactly," he said, still smiling. "You're learning."
Then he stood up, dusted off his hands, and walked toward the next corner like he hadn't just dropped a line of live wire in the middle of a meal.
I followed.
Because I didn't have a choice.
Because I wanted to know more.
And because I wasn't sure who Vex really worked for.
Locals greeted him at every block. By name, by nickname, with nods and handshakes. He slipped coins into cups without slowing down, passed off a few sealed envelopes to people who didn't even thank him.
He didn't care.
He smiled at everyone like they were part of the same unspoken deal.
One man, bent over with a walking stick, called out, "Vex, the river's acting strange again!"
Vex just called back, "Tell it I said hello!" and laughed the entire way down the alley.
He was light on his feet, warm in his words, but no fool.
You could feel it in the way people respected him. Not with fear, like they did Marco. Not with awe, like they did the Club.
But with affection.
The kind that came from being reliable in the places no one else showed up for.
When we stopped again, it was by a fence of bent rebar. Rust flakes floated down like pollen. A stray dog limped past us, tail low.
Vex crouched.
"You see how the lines bend?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"They're not supposed to. But they do."
He raised his lens.
"Every story's got a crooked edge. That's what you're looking for. Not the object. The wound."
I snapped the photo.
The fence caught in the frame, sun warping the metal just enough to make it feel alive.
"That," Vex whispered, "was your first instinct shot."
We didn't say much after that.
Just kept walking, kept shooting, kept watching.
Tomorrow, we'd keep going.
But for today, I had already seen the city differently.
Not through fear.
Not through Marco's precision.
But through Vex's lens — loose, warm, and full of ghosts.