Sai
I arrive at the studio before anyone else because that's how I function, early enough to walk the empty room while the light is still shifting and the silence asks nothing of me. The space is a converted warehouse in the Arts District with high ceilings, concrete floors, and north-facing windows that let in the kind of light photographers build careers around, and I booked it for thefull day because I need to know what every window is going to do at ten, at noon, and at two, before I put a body in front of it.
I move through the room slowly, watching the early sun hit the east wall at an angle I already know will shift fifteen degrees by the time we start shooting. I shift all of the equipment accordingly, before sliding out the 85mm as I run my thumb along the barrel, confirming the focus ring, the glass, the aperture, even though I checked it at home two hours ago because my hands need to check again and I've stopped pretending that's something I can argue with.
By six-fifty every morning, decision the day requires has been made and I'm standing in the center of the room with the light tracking across the floor exactly the way I calculated it would, which is a satisfaction so deep it borders on physical.
This is the one place where my brain works for me instead of against me, where the need to control every variable actually works in my favor, and I'm allowing myself to enjoy the quiet of it when my phone buzzes in my jacket.
The screen glows for three rings while I decide whether answering my mother is worth leaving the clean, silent space I've built in this room, but not answering means a second call, then a third, then a text to Lyric, then a conversation I don't want to have with someone far more dangerous than my mother.
"Good morning."
"You left early last night." Her voice is measured, which is worse than angry because measured means she's already spoken to someone about it and formed a position and this call is not an inquiry but a sentencing. "Celeste said you barely touched your plate."
"I had an early call this morning. The studio needed me to confirm setup before the team arrived."
The lie comes out smooth because I've been lying to this woman my whole life and the muscle memory is flawless. Shepauses and I can hear the pause calculating, deciding whether to accept the answer or push, weighing the cost of confrontation against the value of maintaining the fiction that her son is functioning at the level the family requires.
"Lyric mentioned the Moreaus," she says, which means this was never about the dinner. This was always about the Moreaus. "Elias is a lovely young man. His family has been very patient."
"I'm aware."
"Patience has limits, Sai."
"I understand."
"Do you?" The measured voice cracks just enough to let something real through, something that might be concern or might be frustration or might just be exhaustion. "The family is watching. You know that."
"I know that."
"Then act like it. Call Celeste about the gallery. And eat something today, you looked thin last night."
She hangs up and the studio is quiet again but the quiet is different now, contaminated, the family already inside the room with me. My fingers start tapping against my thigh and I let them run for ten seconds before I press my hand flat against the lens case and hold it there until the rhythm stops.
Priya arrives at seven with two coffees, stops in the doorway, registers that everything is already done, but doesn't comment on it. She nods, hands me the coffee, and pulls out her tablet.
"What do you need?"
"Nothing yet. We're set."
Priya hums as she sits down. She sips her coffee, I sip mine, the silence between us requiring nothing from either of us. Her neutral scent is a gift in mornings like this, something akin to linen, a scent I don’t have figured out how I feel about it. Some mornings that neutrality is the only thing keeping my nervous system from overloading before we've even started shooting.
Hair and makeup arrive at seven-thirty trailing hairspray, a floral perfume that's too sweet, too synthetic, sitting in my sinuses like an accusation. Styling comes at eight with a rack that smells like dry cleaning chemicals and pressed wool. The digital tech arrives at eight-fifteen smelling like nothing because he's a Beta who showers with unscented soap, which makes him my favorite person in the building. The room fills with bodies, noise, competing scents, and I let it wash over me because behind the camera all of the chaos falls into the background. In just a few moments, it will be the lens, and my model.
A producer laughs in the corner, his Alpha scent spiking with amusement and cutting across the room. I glare over at the producer, the power behind my Alpha revealing itself. As a Hollis Alpha, it’s not just the name or the status but the respect. I have very few rules but one of them is my hatred for unnecessary noise.
Someone pokes the Alpha and he twists to look at me before throwing me an apologetic look and silencing.
Perfect.
The model, Ines arrives at nine-forty and I smell her before I see her, warm amber and black tea, a Beta scent that's rich without being aggressive. It's the kind of scent that photographs well because it means her skin holds warmth under lights instead of going sallow.
She moves through the door aware of her body without performing it, the energy in the room reorienting toward her immediately. She's all geometric planes and sharp angles, cheekbones that could cut paper, a jaw that leads with authority. Most photographers flatten a face like hers by shooting straight on because they don't understand it needs shadow to breathe. I know what to do with her. The three-quarter angle with upper left light at thirty-five degrees will turn those cheekbones into the reason someone stops turning the page.
She steps onto the mark without being told where it is because we've worked together before and she trusts the mark will be right, and it is.
"Ines."
