Jason hadn't intended to go to the party.
But Victor insisted.
"You need to be seen," Vic said, straightening his collar. "Not just in server rooms or on blogs. I mean really seen—among money, models, Manhattan."
Jason sighed. "If this is about networking—"
"No," Victor grinned. "It's about branding."
They arrived at a rooftop penthouse in Tribeca. The type of party where champagne flowed like water and half the room wore sunglasses indoors. Models, influencers, startup guys flashing VC money like peacocks.
Jason moved through it like an observer. A tourist from a future that didn't belong here.
Until he saw her.
She was filming.
Not with a phone. With a classic Leica M6, analog, strapped across her shoulder like a weapon.
Curly chestnut hair. Olive skin. Red lipstick like defiance. And eyes that moved over the crowd like a predator. She wasn't here to be seen. She was here to capture.
Jason found himself walking toward her without thinking.
"Let me guess," he said, stopping in her path. "You're not shooting for Vanity Fair."
She glanced up, then down at her camera. "Not unless they pay me six figures and give me final edits."
He smiled. "Documentary?"
"Portfolio. Street realism. I like contrasts. Old money, new tech. Egos pretending they're art."
He extended a hand. "Jason."
She raised an eyebrow. "Like the serial killer or the Argonaut?"
"Depends on the day."
She shook it. "Naomi."
"Nice to meet you, Naomi."
She eyed him. "You don't belong here either."
Jason nodded toward the DJ. "Let me guess. You do?"
"Hardly. I'm here because my best friend is dating a hedge fund douchebag who thinks cocaine is a personality."
Jason laughed.
Naomi's eyes flicked over him. "You're not another app kid, are you?"
"I prefer platform visionary."
She smirked. "God help us."
They talked for twenty minutes, maybe longer. She had thoughts about art and capitalism and digital decay. He mentioned PulseCast and she didn't seem impressed.
"Let me know when it starts paying artists fairly," she said.
Jason paused. "Would you believe me if I said that's the goal?"
"No," she said, tucking her camera back in its bag. "But I'd hope you meant it."
She handed him a card—handwritten, minimalist.
Then she vanished into the crowd.
Jason stared at the name: Naomi Reyes, Photographer. Truth Seeker. Occasional Cynic.
He slipped it into his pocket.
Later that night, alone on the balcony, he looked out at the skyline and realized something.
He wasn't just building a platform anymore.
He was building a legacy.