Page 25 of Kill Feed

Amani stares at me before placing the flyer down on the table, crossing her arms over her chest. Good. That means she’s dropping it. Lucas, on the other hand, is not.

He exhales through his nose. “You can’t keep turning down opportunities just because-”

“Drop it.” The sharpness in my voice cuts cleaner this time. He knows just as well as Amani that I don’t take on photography gigs in October, never-fucking-mind a Halloween event.

“It could open doors for you, Adrian,” Amani begins, throwing me the softest of smiles, “but we understand, don’t we, Lucas?” She shoots daggers his way, putting emphasis on his name.

He guards his mouth for a moment before evidently word-vomiting like always. “I know the anniversary of your family’s death is on Halloween, but surely that shouldn’t affect the fact that you let good opportunities like this go to waste?”

Did I just fucking hear that right? My ears start to ring so loud it drowns out whatever he thinks he’s digging for. I’m not walking back into that graveyard for his sake. And certainly not for the sake of a gig.

“Lucas, let it go,” I demand as I glare at him unblinking.

The past is a locked room, and he doesn’t get a key. No body fucking does.

Lucas studies me, something calculating flickering behind the humor. “You don’t even want to look at the portfolio requirements. I mean, at least that?”

Something inside me snaps clean, like lightning striking in the middle of an oak tree. My expression goes blank as I lean forward, eyes darkening as they dig into his skull.

“Let. It. Fucking. Go.” I reiterate, compressing each syllable.

The life drains from his eyes, and he swallows hard, eyes flaring before peeling his face away, looking anywhere but at me. Amani grabs the poster from the table, crumbling it up in her hand.

“Let’s not start a fight over a shitty events company,” she says before tossing it into a nearby trash can. I catch the slight shiver in her tone and the way she moves as if shaking off her uneasiness. “It’s probably not even worth the money anyway. I bet they overwork and underpay their employees.”

I take another sip of water, grip tight around the bottle as I stare out over the climbing walls until the irritation settles back into something manageable.

I don’t think about my past. It’s not something I revisit. It’s something that sits behind me, constant, like pressure at the back of my skull. I’m aware of it without turning around.

I don’t need to.

Chapter 7

Adrian

Wednesday afternoon lectures are always like this. No one’s fully awake. No one’s fully checked out. Just in a shared state of endurance.

Professor Kline is already setting up at the front, sleeves rolled, greying hair pulled back the way it always is when he’s about to talk longer than planned. He teaches Advanced Visual Theory this semester. It’s less about taking photos and more about why images work. Half the class hates it. I don’t.

I open my laptop and line up my notebook beside it, pen parallel to the edge.

“Alright,” Kline says, tapping the desk once. “Today we’re continuing with semiotics and visual authorship.”

A collective sigh ripples through the room.

He doesn’t react. “The question isn’t what an image shows,” he continues, pacing slowly. “It’s what it assumes about the viewer.”

Slides click forward. Black-and-white photographs fill the screen with war scenes, street portraits and staged intimacy. He talks about framing as control. About how every photograph is a decision that excludes more than it includes.

I jot that down.

Across the aisle, someone scrolls through their phone under the desk. Two rows ahead, a girl is editing photos, exposure sliders flickering as she works. A guy near the front raises his hand to ask a question that’s more opinion than inquiry.

Kline indulges him anyway.

“This isn’t about morality,” the professor says. “It’s about responsibility. When you point a lens at something, you’re claiming authority over the narrative.”

Halfway through the lecture, my phone vibrates against my thigh. It’s most likely Dante; he’s been messaging me almost every day since we exchanged numbers at the nature reserve. And I find myself always replying. It’s infuriating, really.