Reis dressed with the same precision he approached his work—methodical, unhurried, and polished. His shirts were always pressed, cuffs aligned, and his tie, though casual today, sat neatly in place. He chose a dark jacket that matched the quiet sophistication he carried with him, every detail deliberate, no movement wasted. When he checked his watch, it wasn't from impatience but from habit, the small rhythms of a man who lived by structure.
The café was already humming by the time he arrived, its windows spilling soft light across the tables. He slipped inside, steady and composed, drawing no unnecessary attention yet somehow hard to overlook. At the counter, he ordered his coffee—black, simple, the way he liked everything.
Settling into a corner seat, Reis leaned back, surveying the room with the ease of someone who always seemed a step ahead. His gaze lifted at the sound of the door, and there she was—Cameron, shoulders squared, moving with a careful casualness that felt practiced. For a moment, Reis's expression didn't shift, calm as ever. But his eyes followed, sharp and attentive, as Cameron crossed the room toward him.
Cameron sat across from him, notebook steady in her hands, questions flowing one after another. She kept the conversation sharp, almost interrogative, as if keeping the upper hand mattered more than the answers themselves. To anyone passing by, it looked ordinary enough—an artist confirming details with her client.
Reis, as usual, answered with polished ease, never rushing, never breaking his steady calm. To him, Cameron was just Cameron—quiet, professional, almost forgettable. Nothing about this version of her could suggest the woman who, only nights ago, had pressed a knife to a man's throat in a dark alley, steel flashing under dim light, fire in her voice.
But Cameron carried that secret tightly under her skin. She knew how close he had already come to peeling back her mask. Every glance, every pause in his tone, felt like a blade against the truth. So she pressed harder with her questions, redirecting, deflecting, making sure the weight of his gaze slid off course.
Because if Reis looked too closely, even for a moment, the danger would return. And this time, she wasn't sure she'd be able to slip away.
Cameron leaned forward, notebook open, her questions landing one after another with the precision of scalpel strikes, cutting through every hesitation.. On the surface, it was professional—clarifying details, double-checking notes for her illustrations. But her voice carried an edge, each word a little too sharp, a little too quick, betraying something restless beneath.
Reis, unbothered, answered with his usual poise. Calm. Polished. Almost infuriatingly so. The same calm that had made her want to snarl when she was Camielle—the night he'd looked her dead in the eye, mockingly composed, as though he had seen straight through her act. That memory still burned in her chest, feeding every clipped question she threw at him now.
Her tone shifted—cocky, biting, deliberately pressing at him. If he noticed, he didn't flinch. His replies stayed steady, almost amused, as if he knew she was trying to get under his skin and found it entertaining.
The restraint in her posture kept her mask intact, but inside, Cameron seethed. She wanted to break that arrogance, to force a crack in his composure. Yet the more she pushed, the more he stayed the same: untouchable, unreadable. And it only made her sharper.
The café buzzed with its midday chaos, chairs scraping and chatter spilling between tables. Cameron had just tossed another sharp-edged question when the sharp clatter of ice cut through the noise. A young man, tray wobbling precariously, stumbled right beside them. In the blink of an eye, a tall cup tipped, spilling its cold contents across Reis's pristine shirt and down his pressed slacks.
Cameron stilled, pulse skipping. For a breath, she swore she caught it—the flicker of tension in his jaw, the kind of moment that should have cracked his polished veneer. She braced herself for the explosion, for arrogance sharpened into cruelty, for the kind of cutting words men like him never seemed to hold back. But it never came. Instead, he exhaled smoothly, smile still fixed, his composure flawless. And that unshaken calm unsettled her far more than any outburst could have.
But instead, Reis let out a quiet chuckle, as though the mess were nothing more than a minor inconvenience. He brushed at his shirt with one hand and looked up at the boy with an easy smile. "Hey, relax. It's fine," he said, his tone smooth, reassuring, almost gentle.
The boy's face drained of color. He tripped over his words, panicked. "I—I'll pay for it, sir, I promise. Please, I'll cover the—"
Reis raised a hand lightly, still smiling. "Don't worry about it. Accidents happen. I've got plenty of shirts." His voice carried a calm so steady it seemed to sink into the air around them.
The boy exhaled shakily, nodding before scurrying away, relief obvious in his hurried steps.
Cameron, watching in silence, felt something coil tighter in her chest. That smile—warm, unshakable, almost disarming—wasn't arrogant at all. Not like the mocking edge he'd aimed at Camielle. With her, he'd been sharper, smug, too sure of himself. But here? He was all ease and grace, as if nothing in the world could touch him. And somehow, that made her even more unsettled.
Before she could stop herself, the words slipped out. "Are you… okay? Do you need something? Napkin, water—anything?"
Reis glanced at her, and for a second, his eyes softened in a way that caught her off guard. "I'm fine," he said, brushing lightly at the damp fabric of his shirt. "Just some coffee. Hardly worth fussing over."
The casual reassurance should have been enough, but Cameron found herself staring a moment too long, almost as if searching for cracks in that calm. There were none. He was untouchable, composed—even when stained.
Although Cameron tried to let the moment go, tried to loosen her grip on the quiet grudge she carried, her mind wouldn't stay still. That smile of his replayed itself like a trick of the light, too polished, too smooth. Was it real? Or was he simply putting on a show, another mask to throw her off balance? The thought gnawed at her even as she reminded herself—don't overthink.
She slid her sketchbook across the table, forcing her focus onto work. Page after page, lines and shadows revealed fragments of Emilia, the character Reis had built: a figure shrouded in elegance and mystery, fragile in one breath and dangerous in the next.
Reis leaned in, eyes scanning with sharp precision. "You're talented," he said finally, voice even, "but it's not enough." He tapped a page with two fingers, not unkind, but firm. "These are outlines. A silhouette. Emilia isn't just drawn—she breathes, she thinks, she unsettles. I need her essence, not just her form."
Cameron's throat tightened. Praise laced with dismissal stung sharper than outright criticism. She sat straighter, willing herself not to shrink under his gaze. "I need more time," she replied, tone clipped, defensive but steady.
Reis's expression softened, though his words did not. "Take it. But when you bring her back to me, don't give me Emilia on paper. Give me Emilia alive."
Cameron nodded, though inside, her chest burned. She didn't just need more time—she needed distance from the very man who seemed to read her completely.
By the time the meeting ended, Cameron's mind was buzzing with a restless kind of fire. Reis's words—firm, unyielding—echoed inside her, pressing against her pride until it hardened into resolve. She would ace this project. She would bring Emilia to life, not as a sketch, not as a vague echo, but as something raw and real. Whatever it took, she'd get it right.
Back in her room, the weight of the next day crept in. College. The thought alone made her stomach knot. She had missed too many classes already; if she wanted to pass, she had no choice but to show up. Attendance was a leash she couldn't shake off. Still, walking into that campus always felt like stepping into a cage. To those who didn't know her personally, she was just another boy—quiet, unremarkable. It was easier that way, but exhausting. Every interaction felt like a test she had to pass, one mistake away from unraveling.
She laid out her textbooks, forcing herself into the routine: notes, revisions, pages filled with half-hearted underlines. But the words blurred. Emilia kept pulling her back, her presence impossible to ignore. The curve of her mouth, the shadow in her eyes, the strength in her stillness. Cameron's pencil drifted across the margins, not with formulas or diagrams, but with Emilia's face. No matter how she tried to bury herself in study, her mind wouldn't let go.
Emilia demanded to be captured—not as a drawing, but as something more. Something alive.