A man leaning against a lamppost across the street, scrolling absently. Another seated at the counter, nursing an espresso with no real interest in finishing it. Nothing theatrical. Nothing that drew attention.
Just presence.
I didn’t know much about men like them. About operators or soldiers or spies or whatever category Connor and his world truly belonged to.
My understanding came mostly from films and half-remembered headlines—men moving through shadows, violence distilled into spectacle, danger framed as something loud and obvious. This was different. Quieter. Competence without bravado. Protection that didn’t announce itself or ask to be admired.
It fascinated me.
Not in a romanticized way, not as fantasy, but as a system of trust I’d never been part of before. People who handled threats so other people could go on ordering coffee and arguing over nothing and shaking rugs out of windows without ever knowing how close danger had come. The good guys, quietly doing the work, absorbing the risk so it never spilled outward.
I didn’t need to understand all of it. I didn’t need details or ranks or explanations. I trusted that the people Connor alignedhimself with knew what they were doing. That whatever he was—whatever name you gave it—he stood on the side of keeping the world intact rather than tearing it apart.
And I let myself accept that care without interrogating it. I breathed it in and let my thoughts turn to what waited ahead.
Élodie.
My stomach tightened—not with dread, but with anticipation sharpened by uncertainty. I’d replayed the conversation in my head a dozen times since I’d left The Sanctuary.
Tell her you’re ready.
Don’t apologize.
Don’t minimize it.
That last one was the hardest.
My photographs had changed. Not in any way I could easily explain to someone else. But something underneath had shifted. I wasn’t standing at a remove anymore. I wasn’t hiding behind observation.
I was present.
That realization had crept up on me over days and nights, over Connor’s hands and his silences, over the way he let me see him and trusted me to understand the weight of it.
I wanted my work to reflect that now.
The thought thrilled me. Terrified me. Made my pulse skitter.
I finished my coffee—grimacing again—and stood, slinging my camera strap over my shoulder. Outside, the air was cool and bright, carrying the faint scent of bread and damp stone.
Paris felt … intimate today. Like it had leaned in.
The walk to the residency took me past flower stalls bursting with late-season color, petals spilling onto the pavement. Past bakeries venting warmth and sugar into the street. Past two women arguing animatedly, their cadence sharp and musical.
I caught fragments. Missed half of it entirely.
I smiled, anyway.
The weeks since I’d arrived felt impossibly compressed and endlessly expansive all at once. I’d come to Paris expecting to observe—to document, to collect images, to remain just slightly outside the frame.
Instead, the city had demanded my participation.
It had nudged me into conversations I didn’t fully understand, relationships I hadn’t planned for, a love I hadn’t known how to imagine.
By the time I reached the residency, my chest felt full with it all.
Inside, the familiar scent grounded me. Artists drifted through the shared spaces—some already immersed in work, others lingering with notebooks and half-formed ideas. Amaya waved at me from across the room.
“Bonjour,” she called.
