Day 56 – Hour 013"Better Clothes"
I waited until they were distracted—until Vex was mid-rant about soggy fries and Tamber was buried in whatever cryptic insight the negatives had offered him.
Marco remained by the workbench, unmoved as always, arms crossed, gaze steady.
I turned to him.
"I think I'll head out for a bit."
It wasn't really a question.
Marco didn't respond right away. Just stared, unreadable. Then he stepped toward the old cash drawer near the shelf of unused lenses. From it, he pulled a plain envelope. Light, but not thin.
He handed it to me.
No flourish.
No explanation.
Just:"Payment."
I nodded.
That felt right.
I turned to go.
"Buy better clothes," he added, just as I reached the door.
I stopped mid-step.
Not because it was cruel.
But because it was exactly the kind of thing my father would've said — blunt, practical, meant with a strange kind of care.
I turned slightly, gave Marco a short nod, then slipped out before anyone else could say a word.
The street outside felt quieter than usual, though I knew it wasn't.
Same vendors.
Same chatter.
Same rusted bikes rattling past in both directions.
But something had shifted. Maybe it was me.
Maybe it was the envelope in my pocket. Or the job I'd just completed. Or the warning about what was coming next.
I didn't want to think about that. Not yet.
Not until I talked to Ilin.
His place wasn't far, but it wasn't close either.
You had to cut through the uneven streets north of the old market, wind through a cluster of mechanic stalls, and make your way around a half-collapsed concrete complex that no one had lived in for years.
That building always unsettled me. People said it was cursed — others said it was simply a reminder of what happens when a bribe runs out mid-construction.
Either way, I kept my head down until I was past it.
Ilin lived in a narrow walk-up tucked between two repair depots. His name wasn't on the door. It never had been.
The keypad was broken, but I knew the rhythm of the buzzers. Two short, one long. That was his signal.
I waited.
Nothing.
Then, after a moment: click.
The door unlatched.
Ilin was always a strange blend of sharp and aimless.
College classes during the week.
Random books stacked on every surface.
A chessboard always in play, even if he was the only one ever making moves.
He didn't greet me with surprise. Or curiosity. Just opened the door wide, stepped aside, and let me in.
"You look like hell," he said.
I shrugged. "You should see the other guy."
He smirked. That was all.
His place hadn't changed much. Small kitchen. Couch made from two repurposed bedframes. Floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books and half-assembled projects. A pair of shoes that weren't his, tossed carelessly near the bathroom.
I didn't ask.
Sometimes his siblings crashed here when the main house was full. Other times, friends. Or strays. He didn't seem to mind.
"You want tea?" he asked.
"No. Just…" I sighed. "Just needed to talk to someone normal."
Ilin raised an eyebrow. "And you picked me?"
That got a dry laugh out of both of us.
We sat.
Talked about nothing for a while — the way we always did. Music. Politics. The professor he hated. The meal his little sister cooked last week that nearly set the kitchen on fire.
But under it all, I was studying him.
Watching for traces.
His posture.
His voice.
The little glances he gave when I mentioned anything near the edges of secrecy.
And yet, nothing.
He was calm.
Grounded.
Normal.
But I couldn't stop seeing it — that resemblance.
To the man I'd photographed.
Same eyes.
Same chin.
Same eerie calm.
And that stirred something in me I didn't know what to do with.
We didn't talk about the Club. Of course not.
We didn't talk about Marco. Or the job. Or the film.
But when I left, Ilin clapped me on the shoulder and said, "Be careful."
He didn't mean it casually.
He didn't mean it like a friend sending another off into the street.
He meant it like someone who knew there were doors I hadn't opened yet — and that once I did, there'd be no closing them again.