Day 55 – Hour 015"Through Glass and Silence"
The intersection at Garnet and Fifth had never looked like much. A faded street sign. Empty storefronts where tape still clung to broken windows. A narrow alley to the west, and the remnants of what used to be a corner café on the south side. That was what I remembered.
But today… something was different.
It was subtle.
Too subtle for most.
But I wasn't most.
I arrived exactly fifteen minutes early, just like I planned. The light hadn't changed, but the air felt thick — like it knew something I didn't.
At first glance, everything seemed quiet. A couple kids playing with chalk near the curb. A man pushing a cart of used clothes. A woman in a long coat watching her shoes as she walked.
But then I saw them.
Five. Maybe six.
Men that didn't move like the others.
They weren't talking. They weren't buying or selling. They weren't waiting for anything.
They were positioned.
Two across from the alley, leaning casually against a broken bench. One near the shut-down café, pretending to look at his phone. Another pacing slowly between street poles, pausing every ten steps to glance up. And a pair posted at opposite corners, like they had the whole scene mapped in invisible lines.
None of them wore uniforms.
But they didn't need to.
They were guards.
And they were guarding something.
Or someone.
I didn't panic. Panic makes you obvious.
Instead, I slipped behind the cracked remains of a street vendor stall. I lowered my bag gently. Removed the camera. No tripod. Not here. Too slow. Too stiff.
Handheld only.
I took one long breath, eyes scanning the glass across the street.
There.
The reflection of the café door opening.
Two men entered — one tall, sharply dressed in layers that didn't belong in the slums. The other: Ero Seline.
I hadn't seen him in years, but there was no mistaking that face.
He looked just like Ilin.
That same sharp nose. That same too-steady walk.
Only his eyes were different — darker, heavier, like someone who had buried too many names and remembered every single one.
The man he met wasn't from here.
Too polished. Too straight-backed.
They didn't shake hands.
They just sat, facing the window, half-shielded by the broken remains of a curtain. They talked, but not with their mouths. Not much, anyway. Ero leaned forward. The other man stayed still. No drinks were served.
I crouched low, moved along the back wall of the neighboring shop. It had no roof and the side wall was missing, which gave me the perfect line of sight into the café.
But only if I stayed below the windowsill.
I adjusted the aperture.
Fast shutter. Good light.
Three quick snaps, angled just above the curtain line.
No flash.
No sound.
A fourth, this time from a sharp angle using the shattered side mirror of a long-abandoned van.
The guards never looked in my direction.
But that didn't mean they weren't aware.
They weren't careless.
They weren't amateurs.
I would've bet the Club didn't hire these men.
This was someone else's web.
And I had crawled in quietly, unseen… for now.
Ten minutes passed.
I got two more shots from another angle, crouched behind a warped trash bin. The subjects didn't move much. Whatever was happening inside, it was deliberate. Measured.
Like they knew they were being watched.
Or like they didn't care.
I didn't wait for them to leave.
Too risky.
I got what I came for.
I slipped out the way I came in — through silence, through instinct, through patience.
As I rounded the corner and disappeared down the hill, I tucked the negatives into the inside seam of my coat.
I wouldn't feel safe until they were out of my hands.
But the shots were clean.
They were close.
They were dangerous.
And whoever Ero Seline really was… he wasn't just a father.
Not anymore.