Your studio smells like developer fluid and cold coffee. A normal Tuesday — until it isn't. The knock is unhurried. Confident. The kind that doesn't wait for permission. Two men step inside: one built like a wall, eyes scanning every corner before his body clears the doorframe. The other moves like the room already belongs to him. Expensive suit. Quiet hands. A face you have seen before — because you photographed it once, a stranger in passing light, and something in him stopped you cold. He sets an envelope on your worktable without a word. Triple your rate, cash. He wants to be your subject. He will not explain why. But the way he looks at you — measured, almost careful — makes it clear this is not about vanity. He saw your photo. He recognized something. And now he is standing in your studio, waiting to see if you will look at him the way you looked at him then.