The Vance household

It’s Friday night. David Vance is feeling like the king of the world. He’s spent the last forty-eight hours bragging to his associates about his wife’s "modelling contract" with the bridal boutique. He’s seen the photos on the USB drive—the ones where Elena looks at the camera with an intensity of love he’s never quite been able to capture himself. He attributes it to Julian Vane’s genius, but it’s fueled a protective, possessive pride in him.

Meanwhile, Elena has been... different. She’s been attentive, almost worshipful of David, but there’s a distractibility to her. She’s been "spacing out," staring at the flickering light of the television or the way the sun reflects off a silver spoon.

The dinner was quiet, the only sound the clink of silverware against china. Elena sat across from David, her plate mostly untouched. She was staring at the chandelier above the table. One of the bulbs was beginning to fail, emitting a faint, rhythmic flicker.

In her mind, the flicker was triggering something. It wasn't a memory, but a feeling—a warm, violet-tinged hollowness that made her heart rate pick up.

"Elena? You okay, honey?" David asked, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand.

She blinked, the "Vane Gaze" momentarily washing over her features before she snapped back. "Oh! Yes. Sorry. Just... thinking about the shoot. Julian was so professional. I’m just so excited for us to go in on Saturday."

"I have to admit, I was skeptical," David said, leaning back with a glass of wine. "But those shots... Elena, you looked like an angel. If this 'Real Love' project is half as good, we’re going to have the best anniversary photos in the city. And for free? The guy is a saint."

Saint, Elena thought. The word felt wrong. In the back of her mind, a dark, heavy image of Marcus’s body flashed—not as a person, but as a sensation of being filled. She felt a sudden, sharp ache in her womb, a phantom weight that made her shift uncomfortably in her chair.

"He’s... he’s very gifted," she murmured.

"I want to meet him," David said, his chest puffing out slightly. "I want to thank Julian for taking such good care of you. You know, I was worried about you being around a male model all day, but you said he was a total pro, too, right? What was his name? Marcus?"

"Yes," Elena said, her voice dropping an octave. "Marcus. He was... very helpful. He knew exactly how to hold me to get the right look."

As she said the word hold, she felt the "Anchor" pull. Her hand, resting on the table, began to twist her wedding ring. She wasn't thinking about David's pride; she was thinking about the way Marcus's dark skin had looked against the white silk.

Suddenly, the failing bulb in the chandelier gave a final, bright pop and went out.

The sudden flash of light followed by the darkness was too close to the trigger. Elena’s fork clattered to her plate. Her pupils dilated instantly. For a heartbeat, she didn't see the dining room. She saw the grey concrete of Vane Studios. She felt the heavy, rhythmic thrum of the Aletheia-7.

"Elena?" David stood up, concerned. "Did the bulb scare you?"

She looked up at him, and for the first time, the "Husband-Slip" malfunctioned. She didn't see David. She saw a placeholder. She saw a man who wasn't the Light.

"I need..." she whispered, her voice raw.

"What do you need, baby?" David moved around the table, putting his hands on her shoulders.

She leaned into him, but her mind was elsewhere. She was imagining the sound of the shutter. She was imagining the violet glow. She realized in that moment that she didn't just want to do the "Real Love" shoot for the photos.

She needed to go back to the source. She needed to be under Julian's lens again.

"I need to call Julian," she said, her eyes wide and vacant as she looked past her husband. "I need to make sure we’re still on for tomorrow. I don't want to miss a single second of it."

David laughed, completely oblivious to the erotic ruin blooming in his wife’s eyes. "Talk about a fan! Alright, call him. I’m looking forward to it myself."