Francine isn't alone

Francine's mind remained pre-occupied as she drove to Adam's Place. Sure, he wasn't exactly the best at his sales pitches, but how did she unwillingly succumb to allowing herself to be a model for him without any recollection of it? This question (and the answers she tried to come up with for it) was driving her insane.

As she turned in to Adam's apartment complex, she noticed that Adam's door was left wide open, and there was a pair of black flats at his door, something that wasn't uncommon for Adam, due to his constant influx of female models. Francine thought nothing of it can casually sashayed into Adam's apartment, heading straight to his bedroom, which he had converted into a makeshift dressing room for his models.

As Francine closed Adam's main door behind her, she heard a loud "THUMP" come from Adam's studio. "Eh, could've just been a problem with the lights, nothing to worry about", Francine told herself. But as she opened the door to Adam's dressing room, she stood still in her tracks, stifling a scream.

There was a female body, limp and bloodied, clumsily draped off a wooden chair in his dressing room. It was obvious that this was one of Adam's models, since there was copious volume of makeup plastered over her face, her white floral gown now stained with patches of red from very obviously stab wounds on her body. The wounds were small in size, suggesting that they were made by pierce wounds from a small, sharp object. The body smelled fresh, with no scent of decay or rotting flesh.

But the weirdest thing about the body?

The legs of the model appeared to have been cut off above the ankle. The joint was clean-cut, with only a thin layer of skin covering the stump. "Whoever did this is a sick, sick bastard." Francine thought to herself. Then, she thought that it was perhaps, Adam, who was the perpetrator. Fearing for her life, she tried to sneak away, only to feel herself being rooted in place, as if her own feet wouldn't let her get away. Francine saw a butter knife on Adam's Kitchen counter from where she was standing and walked over, picking it up and getting ready for a fight.

As she stealthily crept towards Adam's Photo Studio, she felt that something was amiss. There was no verbal indication of the camera shot, just noises of the camera flash every time a photo was taken. Even though she was a newbie, Adam always made it a point that he would verbally indicate when a photo was taken, so his model would know when to pose.

As her head peeked around the corner, Francine was shocked to the core. Adam was kneeling on the ground, his hands bound to his camera, tied up with rope like a prisoner-of-war. His mouth had been ball-gagged and taped shut using duct tape to prevent him from screaming. In the corner, a pair of feet, likely from the corpse of the lady in the dressing room was echoing commands for Adam to follow. In front of the camera, a young latino girl was posing for her photos, but her eyes were puffy and red, and her movements appeared jerky, almost like her feet were posing her body instead of the other way around.

When Adam was too slow in changing his position or took a blurry shot, the feet in the corner would kick him in the back of his head, causing him to fall over. "Again!", a feminine voice yelled out, as Adam slowly got to his feet and took another shot. "You better not fuck this up, ese" another voice echoed. "We need more photos to be uploaded so that our standings remain high. Remember, the more men wank to our photos, the stronger we get and the less we'll need you."

Francine felt her own toes wriggle in her heels in acknowledgement of that statement, and suddenly, she was dragged out from her hiding spot by her feet right out into the open in front of Adam and everyone else in the studio.

"Well, look who we have here," The feet crooned. "Care for a short introduction?"