After spending the night at Conor's place, Pamn and Conor went their separate ways the next morning, though Pamn's thoughts were consumed by anticipation. By evening, she found herself standing at the doorway of her apartment building, her phone clutched tightly in her hand. The faint hum of the city buzzed around her, but her attention was fixed on the quiet street, tapping her foot.

  Minutes passed until a sleek, silent electric sports car appeared, gliding down the boulevard with an effortless grace. The car’s purple-tinted headlights and shifting underglow reflected on the wet pavement. Pamn felt her chest tighten but forced herself to maintain an air of indifference. Suppressing a smile, trying to look annoyed, she pushed off the doorframe and walked toward the car, her movements deliberately slow and aloof. Sliding into the passenger seat, she glanced at Conor.

  Conor looked her up and down. She was wearing brand-new clothes from Chanel in understated ivory and cream tones, her hair was full and bright, and her lipstick was also bright, though isn't it supposed to be? "Damn," he muttered biting his lip. He reached out, grabbing her hand, "My bad for being late, but I got something for you."

  “Oh yeah? What?” Pamn asked, her voice cool but curious.

  "We'll be there soon," he grinned.

  The car zipped down the lively street.

  "Is there some kinda party going on?" Pamn pointed at the thousands of people who lined the boulevard. Some pointed at them or actually at Conor. Most were adorned with glow sticks and illuminating face paint. The glowing skulls creased as they grinned, running up to the car as it slowed in the busy street. The crowd was small, but to Pamn, it felt like a million people. Their face paint smeared against the windows as they stared inside with wonderment.

  "Yeah, there's some kinda city festival."

  "They instantly recognize you."

  "Fans. They recognize the car. I mean, you don't see a whip like this every day."

  "Iconic."

  "Yeah, you get it." he smiled.

  After maneuvering through the lively streets for another ten minutes, the car came to a stop in front of a modest, clean building. Pamn stepped out, glancing up at the structure, her brows furrowing in confusion. Inside, the space was modern and minimalistic, with high ceilings, large windows, and stark white concrete walls. A group of men stood clustered near lighting rigs and computer equipment, their quiet conversation filling the room.

  Pamn's eyes met Conor's in confusion, "Uh, what's going on?"

  "An audition." A deep voice echoed from across the room.

  “You ready?” Conor murmured in her ear, his voice low and encouraging.

  Her bright blue eyes brimmed with panic. Her trembling hands grasped onto Conor's. "I-I didn't know it'd be now!" Her voice was so breathy that it almost couldn't be heard.

  "Something wrong?" The same voice from before.

  "Come on. Go," Conor urged, pushing her forward.

  "W-what do you want me to do?" she asked hesitantly. She stared at the four men before her, unsure which one was talking.

  He was darkly taciturn. Tall, with tatted arms and tanned skin. Wearing black basketball shorts, black Air Force sneakers, and a black T-shirt. Monroe stared at her, transfixed. "Take off your shoes." She obeyed, slipping off her heels and setting them aside. Before she could collect herself, Monroe grabbed her arm, guiding her to stand before an expensive-looking camera mounted on a tripod. "Wait-" he looked her up and down. She wore a teal blouse, a purse slung across her shoulder, and cut jean shorts."Take off your clothes."

  Pamn looked around.

  "What are you doing?" Monroe asked.

  "Looking for a place to change, I-" She stopped herself, catching the warning in Monroe’s expression. She swallowed hard, silently chastising herself, 'Don't mess this up, Pamn. You've gotta chill. You gotta learn to roll with it. You can't always have a plan and be prepared for everything in life.' Steeling herself, she tossed her purse aside and stripped down to her underwear, ignoring the chill of the room, her composure fragile but intact.

  "Everything."

  He observed with fascination, not in a sexual way, but more like one would be captivated by someone leaning too far out of a high window. She stood tall, suppressing a shiver as her fingers unhooked her bra. The garment fell to the floor, followed by her underwear, which she kicked aside. She stood exposed.

  He placed her on the red 'X' in front of the camera. "Turn around."

  He stared at her for a long time. They all did. The eerie hum of the air conditioning dominated the space for what felt like an eternity until Monroe's face broke into a sly smile, a realization dawning on him. He walked to the far side of the room, leaving Pamn alone in the center. Awkwardly, she crossed her arms, attempting to cover herself. Shivering as the overhead softlight shined down on her.

  He returned, carrying a large metal box. A metal barstool and black tarp stuck out of it. He stretched the tarp under her feet, smoothing everything with great deliberation. He placed the box off the tarp and rummaged through it. In one hand was a tube of paint, and in the other was a lens, which he carefully secured to the camera base. He returned to the box and tossed her a large kitchen knife, which she barely caught. Her icy fingers shivered around its hilt.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "Uh," she looked from the knife to the stool behind her. "What do you, I'm sorry, um, what do you want me to do?"

  He didn't respond.

  "I-"

  He walked to her, making her sit on the stool, then moved behind the camera, taking a remote from his pocket. With one click, all lights turned off. Seconds later, two colored lights turned on. One an amber tone, the other a gold shade. They were rays of sunlight shot through a window on a warm afternoon. The camera clicked. Pamn's eyes flashed to a nearby computer screen. With every shot, a new image would appear there. She was covered head-to-toe in gold, a painting of a Greek goddess.

  Monroe clicked the remote again. The lights dimmed before a blood-red spotlight flickered on, bathing the room in an ominous glow. He approached with a tube of paint, squeezing a generous amount onto his palm.

  He stood in front of her, then without warning, started sliding his hand across her face, causing her to inhale sharply. Then, standing behind her, he wiped the remaining red across her chest and onto her stomach.

  Monroe grabbed the knife from her and stood back, admiring his work. Placing one hand on her shoulder, he stood over Pamn, sticking the blade between her slightly parted lips. She saw the knife and froze, fearful of slicing her tongue on the blade. It went between her teeth. Down into the soft hollow of her mouth.

  Pamn's face. Eyes closed. A red angel. Beautiful.

  Her pale, bleeding, body. The red paint streaked across her body had dried in uneven patterns, giving her the appearance of a fallen angel. Her fragile form leaned against the stool, her arm caught in its cold metal rungs. The knife embedded in her stomach was a stark, visceral detail, its hilt glinting faintly under the spotlight.

  Behind him, the men and Conor stood transfixed, their gazes locked on Pamn enraptured by her figure.

  Monroe crouched into the viewfinder of his camera. Pamn's image reflected in the glass lens. He took a photo, and the shutter closed and opened on Pamn's body. The click was a startling change to the deathly quiet room.

  “Look at me,” Monroe instructed, his voice a low, commanding whisper.

  Pamn's eyes flew open as if jolted from a dream. Her gaze was piercing, her expression a mixture of fear and resolve.

  The clicks continued. Consistent initially, it fell into irregular and staggered patterns, then frenetic.

  He stood frozen, his face a mixture of awe and something deeper—he was entranced.

  Pamn hopped from the blackness of Monroe's studio entrance and into the street, giddy. Conor was right behind her.

  Pamn held up a sample Polaroid from one of the many scenes. A fuzzy pink surface made the image look out of focus, but when one concentrates, the image becomes clear. They will realize they're looking at skin. They'll see a leg, an arm, and ribs protruding through the skin. Lips. A tongue. An amalgamation of odd angles that made up the dismembered and impaled woman. "You could say I…killed it." Pamn quipped, holding up the photo with a mischievous grin.

  "Bro."

  "Bad?"

  "Yeah." He replied, though there was a flicker of a smile on his lips.

  Their eyes met, and Pamn’s breath caught slightly as his fingers laced through hers.

  "You hungry?"

  "Sure."

  The darkness of the night wrapped around them as he pulled her close. In the blink of an eye, they ate at and left the restaurant. His car sprung to life, a succession of streetlights, neon signs, and brightly illuminated billboards. They found themselves on a quiet hill overlooking the city, just a short distance from her apartment. The car’s hood was warm against Pamn’s legs as she sat on it, the cool night air brushing against her skin. Above them, the moon was full, its silver light bathing the city in an otherworldly glow. Conor stood a few feet away, his hands in his pockets as he gazed up at the sky.

  "It's been a minute since I've just chilled like this," he admitted, his voice almost quiet.

  Pamn stifled a yawn, her fingers brushing against her lips.

  He looked at her, "Don't tell me you're tired," he said teasingly.

  "Nah, Nah," she rubbed her eyes, slightly embarrassed.

  "Lemme bring you to your room."

  "There's a 'no guys allowed' rule."

  Conor scrunched his face, "What kinda sad dry-ass dyke runs your place?"

  "I dunno," Pamn shrugged. "So we'll have to be quiet."

  The room was dim, the moonlight streaming faintly through the window casting soft shadows. Conor leaned against the doorframe, his gaze fixed on Pamn. She lay on her bed, her body curled slightly in the same pose she had taken in the studio earlier that day. Her breathing was slow, her eyes half-lidded. Conor moved closer, his voice barely above a whisper, "I'm with you for it all. Till' the end."