Within the maze of neon-lit alleyways, situated next to a shady pub where the thieves and prostitutes of the lower floors gathered, was a quiet double-storey building.

Charles cut a daring figure against its ghastly exterior. He climbed the creaky outer ladder while the pack of Dachshunds watched him curiously, unable to follow behind because of their stubby limbs.

The second-floor corridor didn't have lights, but the flashing pink signboard of the pub outside provided ample visibility.

Charles's pale face looked especially lifeless in that light.

The camera cut to a full shot from behind.

The flickering of the light intensified as the man made his way towards the door at the other end. It gave the impression that he was skipping a few steps or teleporting every two.

It was like watching a flipbook.

The Photographer found himself standing in front of a cold door, its appearance almost as gloomy as his own.

He took off one of his shoes and pulled out a key hidden beneath the inner sole.

With a glance at the flashing signboard, he opened the door and quietly entered the apartment.

In a wide shot, the camera captured the dark room as Charles walked in from the right. The glass window in the center of the frame acted as the only source of light.

Reduced to nothing but a dark silhouette, The Photographer dropped his bag near the door and inched towards the window.

He removed his glasses, the suspenders, and the band holding his hair at the nape.

Released from their constraints, the auburn strands scattered. They grazed his cheeks and obscured half of his face.

The neon lights covering the ceiling bathed his silhouette in a pinkish hue.

The sound of a drop of liquid hitting metal echoed in the empty space.

Charles walked by the window and to the left of the frame, where the kitchen sink was. The faucet was leaking. He tried to close it properly, but nothing changed.

With the tempo of a drop per two seconds, the leak continued.

His hand trailed towards the fridge near the counter. He hunched down, opened it, and peered in.

The rustic orange of the bulb that lit his face seemed at odds with the modern hues creeping in through the window.

Although thin and haggard, for the first time, he seemed particularly attractive.

He retrieved a blue metal can of fish from the fridge. Les Vigne had given it to him for free as the expiry date was running awfully close.

Back to the window, he broke the seal and pried open the can. The pungent smell greeted him.

Whether it was sardines or salmon, Charles didn't know. Thankfully, its color could not be determined because of the lights bleeding in.

With a fork he had found lying around the place, he stuffed the fish in his mouth.

'It's edible,' his eyes relayed.

His gaze drifted away from the drab scenery and to the bag he had dropped by the door.

He took a few unsure steps towards it and retrieved a familiar diary.

This time, he didn't have to worry. There was a sink if he wanted to vomit.

He began from the back, just like he did in the elevator. The back of a picture greeted him.

Without so much as a glance at it, he turned the page.

After a minute of dullness, he found the one he was looking for—the cleanest and most crisp picture.

Turning it over, he found the lady whose hand he was offered. With her back to him, it was a side profile of her.

'Beautiful,' he thought.

The familiar nausea took over him. Holding his chest, he collapsed to his knees.

But the bitter fluid didn't bubble past his throat.

He didn't retch; he didn't vomit.

His legs trembled as he leaned against the wall and stood up. But he couldn't take his gaze off the photograph.

It was beautiful, but—in Averie's opinion—not beautiful enough to so dazzle a man.

Thankfully, he never once made those remarks known.

Charles stooped over the windowsill. In one hand, he held the fork; and in the other, he held the photograph.

More than the outline of her and the dignity she possessed, the bond they could possibly share in the future seemed to endear the picture for him.

Unlike the beautiful butterflies and sceneries that he had grown accustomed to, the sentimentality of a single woman seemed to tickle his artistic fashion.

All these complex thoughts seeped out of his subdued gaze, captured only by the lively close-up.

The pale, lifeless face from before had allowed some color in, even though it was the artificial pink.

His dry eyes, once lost in the mundanity of life, were now watery.

His dilated pupils reflected the signboard of a woman with her leg in the air. It seemed to fold and unfold as the neon lights flashed.

Light electro music kicked in.

Before he knew it, Charles had finished his meal.

He threw the empty can and fork in the sink, took off his shirt, and turned on the leaky faucet.

Once, twice, and thrice, he assaulted his face with the cold water.

The photograph kept playing on his mind. He was lost in contemplation.

"Finally, it will be over," he whispered.

Finally, he could let go and settle in.

He took the picture, held it against the fridge door, and released the discolored magnet in his hand.

As if gravity had malfunctioned, the tiny piece of metal hurtled towards the picture and attached itself right above the crown of the girl.

The back shot showed his thin frame as it moved away with a marker in hand.

Very slowly, the camera zoomed in on the picture.

On the white margin beneath the subject matter were words written in cursive.

Ma Égérie.

Muse.

She wasn't, but she could be.

Whether she could save him from the eventual death of artistry or not, he thought that she could at least provide an answer—the answer he needed.

Finally, he could kill his passion.

In his own questionable way, he glimpsed glimmers of happiness.

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