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Wells moved silently through the darkened corridors of the research facility, letting his hands trail along the concrete walls.

He knew every inch of this place, had spent countless nights photographing its slow decay.

The facility had been his refuge for years—a place where he could capture authentic moments of nature reclaiming man's abandoned ambitions.

A place where he could hide from his father.

His flashlight remained off. No need to alert his prey.

Besides, he could navigate these halls blindfolded.

That first year after discovering the facility, he'd spent weeks mapping it, photographing every corner, every shadow.

He'd captured foxes denning in old offices, owls roosting in the high windows, even a mountain lion that had made the loading dock its temporary home.

Those had been pure moments. Real. Not like the artificial performances Mark Davidson created for his followers.

A sound echoed from somewhere ahead—paper crunching underfoot. Wells smiled in the darkness. Mark was moving deeper into the facility, probably looking for the maintenance tunnel. Smart. But predictable.

Wells had sealed that exit months ago after realizing the facility's potential as a backdrop for his work.

The freezing temperatures, the isolation, the perfect lighting when snow reflected moonlight through those high windows—it was ideal.

He'd known someday he'd find the right subject to photograph here.

Another sound. Closer now. Mark was trying to be quiet, but panic made him clumsy. Wells could almost smell his fear—now that was authentic. Real, raw emotion. Nothing manufactured.

Wells paused at an intersection, considering.

Left led to the laboratories, right to administrative offices, and straight ahead to the central chamber they'd used for equipment testing.

He'd photographed a stunning series in that chamber last winter—ice crystals forming perfect patterns on the curved walls, stark shadows creating abstract compositions.

A faint glow flickered ahead—Mark trying to light a fire? Amateur. The cold was an ally, not an enemy. It preserved moments and made them eternal.

Wells moved toward the light, his boots silent on the concrete floor. Through gaps in the walls, wind moaned like a living thing. The storm was getting worse. Soon, visibility would be too poor for the kind of shot he envisioned. He needed to hurry.

But he couldn't rush this. Each photograph required perfect composition, perfect timing.

His father had taught him that—drilled it into him through endless lectures and cruel punishments.

"Truth requires patience," he'd say, making young Oscar wait hours in freezing conditions for the right shot. "Authenticity can't be rushed."

The light ahead went out suddenly. Wells smiled again. Mark had heard something—real or imagined—and extinguished his flame. Fear was making him jumpy. Good. Fear stripped away artifice, revealed true nature.

Just like death.

Wells reached into his jacket, his fingers brushing the knife handle. He hadn't planned to kill Mark immediately. The shot would be better if there was still life in his eyes when Wells posed him. That moment of transition—when performance gave way to pure truth—that's what he needed to capture.

The facility groaned around him, ice expanding in its bones. Ahead, barely audible over the wind, came the sound of ragged breathing.

Wells moved forward, anticipation building. Soon, he would help Mark Davidson achieve something he'd never managed in life—a moment of perfect authenticity.

Something scuffed against the floor, off to Wells' left.

He smiled. Mark had backed himself into a corner—one of the old offices where researchers had once monitored their gauges and instruments.

Wells could hear him fumbling in the darkness, searching for another way out. But there was nowhere left to go.

Wells stepped into the doorway, blocking the exit. "You know," he said softly, "most people run toward the entrance, not away from it."

A sharp intake of breath, then the scrape of something being knocked over. Mark's voice came from the darkness: "Stay back."

"Or what?" Wells moved forward, each step measured. "You'll film me? Share me with your followers?"

The lighter sparked again, illuminating Mark's face. Blood had dried on his temple where Wells had struck him earlier. His eyes darted around the office, desperate.

Mark's voice cracked as he spoke. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because you're a fake. Everything about you is staged, manufactured." Wells took another step. "But don't worry. I'm going to help you create something real."

Mark lunged suddenly, swinging what looked like a piece of broken chair. Wells sidestepped easily—he'd photographed enough predator-prey interactions to anticipate desperate moves like this.

The knife found Mark's side, not deep enough to kill but enough to weaken him further. Mark stumbled, gasping. The makeshift weapon clattered to the floor.

"That's better," Wells said. "Pain brings authenticity."

He grabbed Mark's jacket before he could fall, keeping him upright. The storm's intensity had increased—he could hear it howling through the facility's broken windows. He needed to work quickly now.

"I have the perfect spot picked out," Wells said, already envisioning the shot. "The central chamber, where the moonlight cuts through those high windows. The snow will provide excellent contrast."

"Please," Mark whispered. "I have family..."

"Everyone has family. That's not what makes you special." Wells began dragging him toward the door. "What makes you special is this moment—when all your carefully constructed facades fall away."

Mark struggled weakly, but the blood loss and cold had done their work.

Wells pulled him into the corridor, heading for the central chamber.

Already, his mind was composing the shot—Mark posed against the curved wall, snow swirling through broken windows, that perfect moment when pretense gave way to truth.

But something felt wrong. The wind's sound had changed, carrying new echoes. Wells paused, listening.

There—distant voices. Someone else had entered the facility.

Anger flared in his chest. More interference, more artificial elements intruding on his work. First the storm threatening his lighting, now this.

He tightened his grip on Mark. He could still salvage this. The central chamber had multiple exits—he could find another angle, another moment. The newcomers' presence might even add urgency to Mark's expression, making it more authentic.

"Looks like we'll have company," he whispered to his semiconscious subject. "Better make this shot count."