📖 CHAPTER I — Vallombre, the Valley of the Unspoken

[EdsbeGores]

CHAPTER I — Vallombre, the Valley of the Unspoken

No one knows exactly how long Vallombre has existed.
The village appears on no official map.
Hikers who approach it speak of strange GPS disturbances, sudden fog, muffled cries among the fir trees.
But no one lingers.
Those who arrive by accident never leave — or leave in silence, never speaking of it, never returning.

Vallombre is surrounded by thick mountains, cut off from everything:
no phone signal, no internet, no visitors.
And yet, the village lives.

---

​

A Peaceful Daily Life… On the Surface

Every morning, the bells ring at fixed hours.
Children go to school.
The elders sip broth in Silence Square — locally known as Rope Square.
The cobblestone streets are clean.
The gardens are neat.
Animals graze without fear.

An outsider might see a simple, rustic, close-knit community.

But those who live here… they know.
They know what happens every Wednesday morning.
They know what secrets the Tower of Law hides.
They know that sometimes, young people disappear — and that questions must never be asked.

---

​

The S.H.E. — Supreme Harmonious Equilibrium

In Vallombre, there is no mayor, no police, no court.
There is only the S.H.E. — Supreme Harmonious Equilibrium.

An ancient system, passed down orally and reinforced by a strict dogma:

"A faulty thread, an unstable age, a stretched fiber — this is the price of balance."

Each week, one resident between the ages of 18 and 26, wearing jeans or sweatpants, is selected to be sacrificed.
Not for any crime.
But for breaking the invisible rules of clothing and posture.

---

​

Nicolas, the Cordmaster

It is Nicolas who chooses the one to hang.

He is neither judge nor priest.
He is the Ritual Executioner, the Sacred Enforcer.
He lives alone, in the Northern House, at the edge of the valley.
He rarely emerges, except on Sundays, when he walks slowly through the streets.
The villagers greet him but avoid his eyes.

Because they know:
when he stops in front of someone, it is already too late.

---

​

The Weekly Hanging

On Wednesday, at the sound of the first bell, silence falls upon Vallombre.
The chosen is already prepared — bound, standing, eyes covered with a blindfold woven from the wool of the “elders.”

The justice pole stands in the center of Rope Square, between the desecrated church and the locked-down town hall.
No one cries.
No one screams.
Everyone watches.

Then Nicolas pulls the rope.

The body rises slowly… or drops violently — depending on the ritual of the day.

And life resumes.
Doors reopen.
The market begins.

---

​

An Isolated Village… but Not Harmless

When the Council believes clothing violations are becoming rare, or the youth too cautious, Vallombre does not loosen its grip.

Quite the opposite.

A fire is lit atop the Dry Tower.
And the Predators awaken.

---

​

The Great Hunt

The Predators — or Hunters — are trained residents, conditioned for a single task:
to bring back, by force or deceit, faulty youth from neighboring villages.

They leave at night, in silence, dressed in black, using paths no one else knows.
They select their prey according to sacred criteria:

• forbidden attire (jeans, jogging),
• target age (18–26),
• “incompatible” behavior.

Once found, they abduct them without a word, gag them, and transport them to Vallombre.
There, they are locked inside the Black Barn, and hanged without trial.

Outsiders are not announced.
They are not named.
They are called the Lost Furrows — their death considered a gift to preserve the Order.

---

​

The Inhabitants… Silent Accomplices

The villagers know every step.
They know what happens in the woods, in the cellars, on moonless nights.

But they say nothing.

Because in Vallombre, to speak is to break the Silence.
And to break the Silence is to shatter the Equilibrium.

So they smile.
They garden.
They live.

And every Wednesday, they watch another body rise into the sky.

 

[EdsbeGores]

"The Silent Masterpiece"



Everything has to be perfect.
No improvisation. No mistakes. No vagueness.
I arrived at the abandoned building three days earlier. A former textile factory, lost, eaten away by damp. The perfect location. Isolated. No houses within a kilometer.
I spend hours inspecting every nook and cranny. Natural lighting is poor, so I bring my own fluorescent tube. Suspended from the central beam. 4000K, cool light, but not clinical. Just enough to give the skin that pale tint. I tested it with a mannequin. The shadow falls exactly where it's needed. On the back of the neck. Under the eyes.
The camera is a Sony AX700, mounted on a carbon tripod, locked to the ground with two pegs. 1080p resolution, 60 frames per second.
The sound? Røde directional microphone, mounted overhead, slightly behind. It must pick up breaths, crackles, barely audible heartbeats. I ran several tests. I spent the day adjusting. Everything is perfect. I also pay attention to echo: too much reverb, and the tension is lost. Every noise must have weight. Every tremor, every breath must remain suspended in the air like a raw truth.
Thomas Novak.
I've been following him for three months.
Not by chance. I've seen so many faces. Young people in the street, anonymous silhouettes. But him...
He appeared one evening, wearing light blue jogging pants, black gloves, hood up. He walked unhurriedly, as if gliding through the world without belonging to it.
I followed him. Observed him. Noted his habits. He almost always goes out between 6 p.m. and 7 p.m. He listens to music, but the sound is often muted. He looks around. Intelligent. Discreet.
He lives alone. He doesn't talk to anyone. No public social media. Just a disposable email address. Thomas-novak06@proton.me. Perfect.
He's young. 19 years old. But the way he carries himself, the way he stands... it's already an unfinished work.
It only took one look for me to understand: it would be him.
I want it in my scene.
When evening comes, I get into the van with the engine running.
Two accomplices, silent, operational. They don't ask questions. They know I know what I'm doing.
6:47 p.m. He turns the corner. I recognize him even in the dark.
Stop. Quick exit. Bag over the head. Sharp blow behind the knee. He falls. He doesn't scream. Not once.
But he struggles. He resists. His arms move, his legs try to push. He doesn't understand what's happening to him. But he senses that this isn't just a robbery.
We load him up. Serflex on his wrists and ankles. Bag tightly adjusted. He grunts, writhes, tries to speak. So I approach, lean my head towards him, calmly, and whisper:
"You're going to be of great use, Thomas. You don't understand yet, but what I'm going to do with you... it will be perfect."
He shakes his head, yells "No!", tries to free himself. But I tighten the restraints. I pull them until his wrists turn red, until he can't even move them anymore. I want him to feel the weight of what's happening.
We're rolling.
The building is ready.
Everything is silent.
He is brought down. Footsteps echo on the cement.
When I take the bag off, he blinks only once.
Nothing else. He looks around, not panicking. But I see he understands this isn't a simple kidnapping. He sees the rope. The crate. He panics again.
"No... no... stop, this is going too far..."
I smile.
“You are perfect, Thomas. You will make your mark. You will become eternal.”
He struggles, tries to drop the crate, tries to throw himself backward. But he can't do anything. The restraints hold. He's trembling. He's breathing hard, his gaze becomes shifty. He's in denial.
I'm bringing him up. He has no choice.
He grunts, he begs. Tears stream down his cheeks. He's at the end of his rope. His breath is short, nervous. I see his legs trembling, his gaze slowly breaking. Panic has taken over everything. His pants are stained around his penis, his tail, a dark mark slowly spreading across the light blue fabric. He collapses in on himself, reduced to primal fear.
This is the moment I've been waiting for. Humiliation. Total.
Not a humiliation through raw sadism. No. A controlled, orchestrated humiliation. A way to strip the subject of everything that ties him to pride, to control.
I wanted him to feel that fragility. To see himself from the inside, defenseless, emptied of everything he thought he was. To understand, at the moment of his loss, that he was exactly where he belonged.
I wanted this image to exist: that of a still-young body, in light blue jogging pants, bent under fear, unable to get up, unable to face it. This naked truth.
And that's where it all becomes sublime.
I put the rope around his neck.
Then, just before the moment... I cut the wrist ties.
I want to see what he'll do with his hands free.
I want him to struggle. To fight. To try.
And he does.
He gives it his all. He twists, grabs the rope, tries to slide it, to loosen it.
His fingers search for the knot, scratch, clench. Panic is no longer just visible, it's palpable.
His feet are flailing, his arms are flinging in all directions, as if his body still refuses to give up, I can see his cock swelling into an erection. But his face... his face, it understands.
But it's too late.
I push the box.
His body falls. Not too much. Just enough for the weight to tighten the rope. The camera films everything. The arms stretching out. The fingers quivering. The broken breath. The rope creaking. The eyes still searching, but no longer seeing. His cock hardening even more, with the erection beginning, he cums with pleasure, his cock even starts to come out of his jogging pants, it's the moment when mine is already hard, and I look at him with that smile of pleasure I feel when I see him die.
I don't move. I let it run.
Every second is an offering.
And when everything stops...
When his body hangs without trembling... and his semen flows onto the concrete floor, his cock is red, engorged with blood,
I pick up the camera.
I look at the result. In silence.
It's beautiful.
I knew it.
I knew it would be him.
The light. The frame. The sound. Her face.
Everything was perfect.
And now I can wait for the next one.
But he will have to be at least as pure as Thomas.
Because we don't film death.
We sculpt it.

 

[EdsbeGores]

"The Silent Masterpiece" (Dark Version)



Everything has to be perfect.No improvisation. No mistakes. No vagueness.This is what I've been saying for years. And it's not an obsession. It's a necessity.The world is a sloppy chaos. An amateur theater where actors recite without understanding. But not here. Not in my frame. Here, everything has meaning .For three days I've been living in the remains of a sawmill. A gutted building, forgotten by time, on the edge of the old railway line between Magny-Maubert and Servance. The wood is slowly rotting. The walls reek of abandonment. And I feel at peace there .I haven't spoken much since I've been here. It's not helpful.The neon I hung diffuses a cold light, but just human enough to make it seem like a real scene. A scene where horror is not shouted, but suggested .The camera waits. The sound, calibrated to the breath.What I'm about to create here is not a crime. It's a correction .Mathieu Hérault.He doesn't know it yet, but he should have been something else. He had that potential. That dirty light that you don't notice if you don't know how to look.22 years old.Always hanging around, drinking, smoking. He thought that was enough to make him a man. He never understood that he was just in transition , like a butterfly whose painting hasn't been finished.I saw him one night, leaning against a concrete wall, in this black jacket, his arms relaxed, his legs crossed like a shop window mannequin.But in his eyes, nothing was fixed. He doubted, he searched.He was perfect.I dreamed about him three times before approaching him.In the first dream, he was bleeding from his nose, standing in a white light. In the second, he was laughing soundlessly, his mouth open but empty.The third... I woke up with the taste of metal on my tongue.That's when I realized: it was meant for me.Le kidnappingStop. Quick exit. Bag over the head. Sharp blow behind the knee. He falls like a bitch. He struggles and tries to scream, so I put my hand over his mouth with the chloroform so he can fall asleep.We load him up. Serflex wrists, ankles. Bag tightly adjusted. He's not completely asleep, he just seems dazed, his eyes move slightly, he speaks softly, saying “what are you doing”.. So I approach, I lean my head towards him, calmly, and I whisper:“You're not going back to your life, Matthew. This world was never yours. It lent you its trash, its cigarettes, its bottles... but it never looked at you. I saw you.”then he finally fell asleep.We're rolling.— The building is ready.Everything is silent.He is brought down. Footsteps echo on the cement.When I take the bag off, he blinks only once.Nothing else. He looks around, not panicking. But I see he understands this isn't a simple kidnapping. He sees the rope. The crate. He panics again."No... no... stop, this is going too far..."I smile."You are perfect, Mathieu. You will leave your mark. You will become eternal. Others have experienced it before you and they loved their destiny."He struggles, tries to drop the crate, tries to throw himself backward. But he can't help it. The restraints hold. He's trembling. He's breathing hard, his gaze becomes shifty. He's in denial.I'm bringing him up. He has no choice.So I decide to take off his jacket and t-shirt this time, so I can see his sexy young man's torso, He grunts, he begs. Tears stream down his cheeks and then onto his bare chest. He's at the end of his rope. His breath is short, nervous. I see his legs trembling, his gaze slowly breaking. Panic has taken over everything. His pants are stained at his penis, at his tail, a dark trace slowly spreading across the blue fabric. He collapses in on himself, reduced to a primal fear.This was the moment I'd been waiting for. Humiliation. Not a simple setback, no... an absolute degradation. Not out of sadistic pleasure—that would have been too easy—but out of necessity. A methodical, surgical humiliation. I planned everything to strip him, piece by piece, of what he believed he was: his pride, his dignity, his composure.I wanted him to feel fear crawling under his skin, to collapse silently, aware of his own insignificance. I wanted him to see me—not as a man—but as a cold, implacable entity, something that exists only to break. And when he understood… when he saw that all of this was inevitable, he no longer struggled. He finally belonged.I wanted this image to exist: that of a still-young body, in black jeans, bent under fear, unable to get up, unable to face it. This naked truth.And that's where it all becomes sublime.I put the rope around his neck.I take a kitchen knife that I had kept aside, and I cut his jeans at the level of his cock, then I put my hand inside, with the aim of taking his cock and letting it take the air and breathe, I take the opportunity to jerk him off a little so that it begins to harden slightly.Then, just before the moment... I cut the wrist ties.I want to see what he'll do with his hands free.I want him to struggle. To fight. To try.I want to see his cum ejaculate and his cock harden and stand up.And he does.He gives it his all. He twists, grabs the rope, tries to slide it, to loosen it.His fingers search for the knot, scratch, clench. Panic is no longer just visible, it's palpable.His feet beat the air, his arms flung in all directions, as if his body still refused to give up, But his face... his face, it understands.But it's too late.I push the box.Her body falls. Not too much. Just enough for the weight to tighten the rope. The camera films everything. The arms reaching out. The fingers quivering. The breath caught. The rope creaking. The eyes still searching, but no longer seeing. I can see his cock swelling into erection, he manages to shoot his cum on my bare chest, and on my face, I feel his semen flowing over me while exciting me. This is the moment when mine is already hard, and I look at him with that smile of pleasure that I feel when seeing him dieI don't move. I let it run.Every second is an offering.I feel his last breaths in my mind.And when everything stops...When his body hangs without shaking... and his semen flows onto the concrete floor, his cock is red, engorged with blood, we can see a long thread of sperm flowing from his cock to the ground soiled by dust.At that moment I decided to definitely lower his pants and his underwear to discover what was hidden underneath, and that's when I saw his delicate and red legs, dripping with sweat, due to his athletic dance in the void. We can see his excrement starting to come out of his anus, I should have thought of that, for the next one it will be necessary to empty it before hanging, I'll think about it next time!!!His bare chest is beautifully wet with sweat and drool running from his mouth, we can also see a string of snot running from his nose with drool from his mouth sliding down his bare chest and slowly ending up on his cock.I pick up the camera.I look at the result. In silence.Not out of respect. Not out of emotion. Just… because there's nothing to say.Images speak. They even whisper.He was smiling. His eyes were shining. His skin was taut with joy too great for his face.It was not just a moment of happiness.It was an offering.Almost a form of grace.You can feel his soul opening up on every level.His gestures, calm, precise. His breathing, almost imperceptible, echoes in the silence.The light fell on him with disturbing accuracy.As if the universe itself had held its breath so as not to disturb the moment.It was perfect.I didn't have to correct anything.I knew it would be him.From the first glance. From the first second.He had this... something.This purity lost in a world too dirty.And I captured her.The frame. The grain. The sound.Even the imperfections seemed thought out.Everything fit together without resistance.As if the whole world conspired to sculpt this scene.Yes… sculpting.Because we don't film death.On the scissors.We soften it. We distort it.We give him a face.And now it's over.His image is frozen.His happiness, fossilized.Untouchable. Eternal.I can wait for the next one.But he will have to be at least as pure as Matthew.Otherwise, it would just be a sham.And I can't stand pretenses.

 

[EdsbeGores]

The Fear Studio (Chapter 4)

The White Jogging Suit​

The sky was clear that night, but the air felt like a trap. I had spent six months preparing for this hunt, six months watching the world, dissecting it to find perfection. And perfection, I had found in Léo.

He was there, on the sidewalk, a white jogging suit contrasting with the twilight. I had spotted him two months ago. He was leaving a club, the music still echoing in the air, but his expression was already elsewhere. He didn't look happy. He was alone, lost in his thoughts. That's what had drawn me in, that contrast between the energy of the place and the emptiness in his eyes.

I had prepared everything. No improvisation. No mistakes. No ambiguity. The workshop was ready, an old car garage. The light, a cold, pale halo, illuminated a single chair, positioned in the center. I had set up the camera, a Nikon D850. I had checked the sound, a hypercardioid microphone, to capture the slightest breath, the slightest heartbeat.

The wait had been long, but he was there. 4:30 in the morning. The hour of flight, when the city quiets down and the angels of the night return to the sky. He was standing, hands in his pockets, his head bowed, his gaze blank. I approached him, softly, without a sound. A breath of icy wind. He didn't see me, he didn't feel me. The black bag fell over his head. I saw his muscles tense, his breathing stop. No screams, no struggle. Just a brief resistance before he collapsed. I loaded him into the van, where my accomplice was waiting.

I removed the bag when we arrived at the garage. His eyes were wide open, but he wasn't really seeing. He was seeing the horror. He started to tremble. The contrast between the white, immaculate jogging suit and the dirt of the concrete floor was magnificent. "You're going to be very useful to me, Léo." His mouth opened, but no sound came out. He just swallowed, his eyes fixed on me. He was perfect. He was not just a man. He was an unfinished work of art, a blank canvas that I was about to sublimate. I am not a monster. I am an artist, and he was my most beautiful creation.

---

The truth, for Léo, manifested as an absolute silence. He wasn't screaming, wasn't struggling anymore. His body, frozen in the chair, was just a shell subject to an internal cataclysm. His hands, on his thighs, clenched until his knuckles turned white. The fine beads of sweat on his forehead highlighted a suffering that went beyond screams. It was pure fear, without artifice, without escape. The very essence of his deepest fear.

I stepped back, a necessary distance to appreciate the painting as a whole. The white jogging suit, once a symbol of his anonymity, shone under the fluorescent light, making every fold, every muscle tension, incredibly visible. It was a blank canvas that I had sullied with horror. I didn't speak. I didn't need to. The work spoke for itself. I simply adjusted the camera, moving the tripod a few centimeters to the left to capture the perfect reflection of the light in his fixed eyes. The microphone, meanwhile, captured barely audible noises: the rustle of his jogging suit against the seat, the disordered rhythm of his breathing, and the frantic pounding of his heart that hammered the silence.

"Magnificent, Léo," I murmured, my voice so low it was almost inaudible. "You are… perfect." He raised his head, slowly, and his eyes settled on me. It was not a look of hatred or defiance. It was the eye of a hunted animal that has abandoned all will to flee. He saw the end, not mine, but his. And that silent acceptance was the culmination of my work. I pressed the record button. The scene was complete. The truth was in motion.

---

The tape ran in silence. My gaze was fixed on the screen, where every part of Léo's suffering was magnified. His body, once so tense, began to relax. Not like a liberation, but like the final fall of a puppet whose strings have just been cut. The white jogging suit, immaculate, suddenly seemed too big for him, like an improvised shroud. This was no longer panic, no longer fear. It was a total acceptance, a resignation. The liquid I had given him was just a trigger, the key that had opened the door to his soul so that the truth could escape. And that truth was emptiness, the certainty of the insignificance of his existence in the face of mine, in the face of my work.

I put the camera down on the floor and approached him. I placed my hand on his shoulder again. This time, he didn't flinch. He just stared blankly, a small, sad smile on his lips. It was the end of the scene.

"Don't worry, Léo," I whispered. "You are perfect. You are immortal."

His eyes lost their shine, the little light they contained went out. His breathing became slower, weaker, until it disappeared. The silence returned, but this time, it was heavy, thick. The tape continued to run for a few minutes, recording the stillness of the finished work, the perfection of the moment. When I turned it off, I knew I had my masterpiece. The truth, in all its beauty and brutality, was in the can.

The silence fell like a curtain on the stage. The work was complete. I leaned over Léo's body. The white jogging suit, which had symbolized his innocence, was now the shroud of a budding artist. I felt no remorse, no pity. Only a deep satisfaction, that of the creator who contemplates his most beautiful success.

The work now had to be preserved. The body, that ephemeral sculpture, was just one step. Léo's immortality resided in the tape. I took a large moving blanket, carefully folded in a corner of the workshop, and wrapped the body. Every gesture was measured, respectful, as if I were sheltering an object of great value. The goal was not to hide him, but to protect him from the outside world, to make him an absolute secret, a relic.

My accomplice, silent as a shadow, appeared. He didn't ask me any questions; he knew that perfection had a price. Together, we loaded the body into the van. The journey was short, to an isolated vacant lot, miles from the city. The hole had been dug the day before, deep and anonymous. The cold ground, the heavy earth, all of it was part of the process.

Back in the workshop, the only thing that remained was the tape. I watched a few moments of the masterpiece. Léo's expression, the tension in his body, the truth that sprang from his eyes. It was sublime. I put the tape in a fireproof safe, out of sight, out of mind. The world would never see the work in its entirety. It existed only for me, and that's what made it so perfect.

The perfection of the work with Léo was an intoxication that could not last. Once the tape of the ultimate truth was safely stored, a void set in. The hunger returned. The hunger of the creator for a new canvas, a new source of raw emotion. I put myself back on the hunt. Not in a rush, but with the patience of a predator who knows its territory. My days and nights became a long inspection of the city. Cafés, libraries, public transport, deserted parks. I wasn't looking for a particular face, but a soul, a flaw. Someone who, like Léo, carried a hidden beauty within them, a fragility that the world had not yet perceived.

I observed hundreds of faces, hundreds of lives. Some were too loud, others too lively. Lifeless faces didn't interest me. I was looking for a shadow, a reflection of an inner anguish.

That's when I saw Élise.

She was sitting alone on a bench, a book open on her lap, but her eyes weren't reading. They were lost in the void, fixed on the city's gray horizon. Her flamboyant red hair contrasted beautifully with her pale face and dark clothes. She seemed both present and absent, a solitude so deep it was palpable. I saw in her a melancholy that was just waiting to be revealed. A story not of rage or fear, but of pure sadness, of a rare intensity. I started to follow her, to note her habits, to learn her rhythm. She almost always went out alone, didn't mingle with others. She was a museum piece lost in a gallery that was too big.

Perfection had a new name. And this time, the work would be different. It would be all about nuance, silence, and contained tears. A symphony of grief. Élise didn't know it yet, but her face would be my next canvas.

The hunt for Élise was a meticulous affair, a delicate dance of observation and patience. Her solitude was a fragile thing; a single clumsy move could shatter it, and with it, the raw beauty I sought. My previous works had been about terror, about the sudden shock of a world turned upside down. This one would be different. It would be about quiet despair, about a profound and elegant sadness.

I found a new location. Not a factory or a garage, but an abandoned art gallery. The main room was bathed in the gentle light of a skylight, and the walls, stripped of their paint, had a subtle texture that spoke of decay and forgotten stories. The air was cold, still. It was the perfect canvas for a symphony of grief.

My tools were different this time. A smaller, more discreet camera. The light was natural, unfiltered. I wanted no harshness, no sudden glare to spoil the mood. The microphone was positioned to capture the faintest sigh, the tremor in a whispered word. Every detail was curated to amplify the melancholy, to make her sorrow the centerpiece.

I waited for weeks, learning her schedule. She had a routine, a predictable orbit that she never left. She would walk home from the library every Tuesday night, her head down, lost in her own world. The path was secluded, lined with old trees that cast long, mournful shadows. It was the perfect stage for the final act of her solitude.

I didn’t use a sack. There was no need for a struggle. I simply approached her from behind and placed a hand on her shoulder. Her body flinched, but she didn’t scream. She turned slowly, her eyes wide, but there was no fear in them—only a weary resignation, as if she had been waiting for something like this all along.

"Don't worry, Élise," I whispered, my voice as soft as a breeze. "I'm not here to hurt you. I'm here to understand you. To show the world the beautiful sadness inside you."

She didn’t resist. She didn’t fight. She simply let me lead her to the van. It was as if she were a ghost, moving through a world she no longer inhabited. In the gallery, under the soft, fading light, she sat on a simple wooden stool I had placed in the center of the room. Her red hair, like a splash of defiant color, was the only vibrant thing in the whole space.

"The world saw your sorrow as a flaw," I said, a smile on my lips. "But I see it as art. We're going to create something beautiful, you and I. A symphony of grief."

The red light on the camera began to blink.

Élise didn't move. She was the embodiment of stillness, a statue of sadness in the cold studio. The natural light falling from the skylight accentuated the pallor of her face, and her deep green eyes looked a thousand years old. I didn't need to terrorize her. Her grief was already a raging sea. I only had to observe.

I moved closer, then crouched down, level with her face. I placed my hand on her cheek, cold and wet. She didn't move. Her body was a shell. I whispered, "You know, I'm not asking you to love me. I'm just asking you to show me the beauty of your sadness." Her eyes flickered, and she began to cry, silently, her warm tears trickling onto my hand. It was sublime. The emotion was pure, raw, without a trace of fear.

I stepped back and continued filming her. Her body was a poem. Her hands, which had been resting on her knees, had tightened. Her mouth had twisted, and her eyes, which weren't looking at me, filled with an ocean of tears. I saw her sadness, her loneliness, and I knew this was my life's work. I let her cry, without disturbing her. I let her express herself. I watched, motionless, fascinated by the beauty of her grief.

Then, after what seemed like an eternity, her tears began to slow, and her breathing returned to normal. She looked up and met my gaze. There was no more sadness, only acceptance. She smiled, a sad smile, and said, "You know, I've never been more alone than in this moment." It was the end. The end of grief. The beginning of perfection.

 

[EdsbeGores]

Chapter I – The Eye Behind the Lens



David Matheot had never believed in chance. For him, every detail was a clue, every gesture proof, every encounter a scene in a play of which he considered himself the sole director.
He had grown up in a small, uninteresting town, a place where people knew each other too well, where rumors were worth more than truth. His family was neither violent nor loving—simply absent. His parents lived side by side, indifferent, like two strangers sharing a roof without sharing their lives. As a child, David had grown accustomed to being ignored. So he learned to observe. Observe, and understand.
At thirteen, he found an old camera covered in dust in the attic. The cold metal of the object fascinated him. Through the lens, the world changed: shadows became thicker, faces more vulnerable, invisible details emerged. Very quickly, he stopped photographing landscapes or family celebrations. His secret shots captured cracks in walls, silhouettes in the street, stolen glances in the school corridors. Fragments of reality that no one else saw—or wanted to see.
Years passed. As a teenager, his classmates found him strange. Too silent. Too attentive. He hardly spoke, but his gaze was enough to unsettle. Teachers described him as brilliant but unstable, his notebooks filled with diagrams, plans, and enigmatic sentences. David had no friends, no confidant. He didn't want any. He had his images, and that was enough.
At seventeen, he left home almost for good, preferring to spend his nights in the nearby industrial ruins. The crumbling walls, the broken windows, the creaking staircases—all of it had the beauty of a cathedral to him. His photographs multiplied: overturned chairs, forgotten graffiti, corridors plunged into darkness. But he was no longer content with empty spaces. He began to follow passersby, to capture faces when they thought they were alone. Moments of weakness, moments of fear or solitude—that's what he sought.
Today, at twenty-one, David wanders the city like a shadow. He carries his camera slung over his shoulder, a video camera in his bag, and a black notebook filled with his locations. The cafes where he sits are chosen for their discreet nooks and crannies. The dilapidated buildings become his haunts. He notes the schedules of passersby, the habits of his neighbors, the windows that remain open at night.
But deep down, David doesn't just believe he's observing.
He's convinced he's making a film. A film whose script no one knows except himself. The others are merely extras, silhouettes in his scenery. He alone holds the camera. He alone decides when the scene begins... and when it ends.
And tonight, as he leaves his tiny apartment, camera in hand, he has already chosen his frame.
The light from a streetlamp flickers at the end of the street.
The story can begin.

 

[EdsbeGores]

Chapter II – Shadow Models

David advanced through the night like an invisible hunter.
His camera thumped against his hip with each step, ready to be drawn. For him, every alleyway, every corner of the city could be transformed into a backdrop. But it wasn't the stone or the cracked walls that really interested him. It was the bodies. The gazes. The moments when people lost control of their image.

He had long known which faces attracted him most. Young men. Not just any old ones: those with that simple, unsettling beauty, still raw, sometimes arrogant. Those who believed themselves free, invincible, carefree. Those who hadn't yet understood that the world was watching them, that their actions betrayed them.
David found them fascinating in their contradictory mix: mysterious and beautiful, but also stupid, too naive to see the trap of his gaze. Their ignorance was their flaw, and he knew perfectly how to capture it.

He observed them like others collect trophies. In cafes, in metro stations, in deserted squares, he chose his "subjects." He waited for the moment when their attitude broke, when a mask fell: a lost look, a tense expression, a nervous laugh. Then he took out his camera, fast, precise, like a soul thief.

David didn't want perfect photos. He wanted images that disturbed, that fascinated. Shots that forced the viewer to feel uncomfortable, attracted and repelled at the same time. His models, most of the time, were never aware they had been photographed. They continued on their way, unaware that their image was now trapped in his film.

That evening, he stopped in front of an unassuming bar, on a street where neon lights flickered. Through the window, he saw a young man alone, sitting near the bar. Dark-haired, slender, and looking a little lost. David stared at him for a long time, as if choosing a target. He didn't just see an ordinary customer. He already saw a frame, a scene. Perhaps an expression of surprise as he left the bar. Perhaps fatigue captured in the cold light of a streetlamp.

He positioned himself in the shadows, took out his camera, and adjusted the focus. In his mind, the photo already existed. The click would be a mere formality.

For David, beauty wasn't found in posed smiles, but in the cracks of reality. And the more unusual, bizarre, and unexpected the moment, the more precious the image became.
And the more mysterious, handsome... and stupid the young man, the more perfect the scene became.

 

[EdsbeGores]

Chapter III – First Contact

David had slipped out of the bar, invisible in the shadows. His eyes remained fixed on the young man sitting near the bar, this slender, absent-minded young man, fragile in his solitude.



He observed the scene for a long time, like a director waiting for the right moment to launch his camera. In his head, the film was already written. The young man would come out, walk down the dark street, and then… David would get his shot.

But tonight, he wanted more. Observing was no longer enough.
He wanted to talk. He wanted to get closer.

When the boy finally paid for his drink and stood up, David stepped out of the shadows. He followed him at a distance, matching his pace to his, until a deserted street opened up before them. The young man lit a cigarette, looking distracted.

That's when David called out to him, his voice low, almost neutral:
"Excuse me... you have an interesting face. Would you mind taking a picture?"



The boy turned around, surprised. His first instinct was nervous laughter.
"Me? A picture? Why?"
David barely shrugged, as if the answer didn't matter.
"Because you have that mysterious... mixture. You could be in a movie."

He knew exactly the right words to use. Young men like this loved to be flattered. Handsome but insecure, mysterious but a little stupid, unable to resist the idea of being noticed.

The boy hesitated, then finally shrugged.
"Okay... go ahead, if you want."



David felt his heart pound, not with nerves, but with cold excitement. He raised his camera, adjusted the lens. Through the lens, the boy was no longer a person. He became an image. A scene. A role in his personal film.

The click echoed in the silence of the alley.
David lowered the camera, a thin smile on his lips.

He had just crossed a boundary.
Observing was no longer enough. Now he had begun to capture.