Chapter 1: The Abating Light

Anne's Point of View

Today, the joy of the hunt—the thrill of capturing a story with my Nikon D6—should have dominated my senses. Instead, a chilling dread had settled over me like a shroud. What is this? This feeling… it’s not just jet lag. It’s something else. Chernivtsi's Central Market, however, was anything but still. It was a vibrant, chaotic symphony of sights and sounds. The air hung thick and heavy, a heady mix of ripe fruit, pungent spices, and the earthy scent of freshly turned soil. A kaleidoscope of colors assaulted my eyes—the deep crimson of ripe cherries spilling from overflowing baskets, the sunshine yellow of sunflowers vying for attention with stacks of vibrant orange pumpkins, the deep emerald green of herbs bundled tightly together. I should be focusing on the composition, the light… but all I can feel is this creeping unease. The cacophony of sounds was equally overwhelming: the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith's hammer, the raucous chatter of vendors hawking their wares in rapid-fire Ukrainian, the bleating of goats penned nearby, the shrill cries of children chasing pigeons across the cobblestones. My fingers, usually itching to capture these moments through my lens, felt numb with a different kind of anticipation, a cold dread that chilled me to the bone.

"Simon, look," I whispered, nudging him. "That guy in the suit keeps staring."

Simon, ever the pragmatist, chuckled. "Relax, Anne. You're just jet-lagged. Homesick, maybe? It's a big change, coming all the way from the Philippines."

"Homesick? Naku, Simon! This isn't homesickness. It's… I don't know. But it's creepy." His gaze… it’s like he’s seeing right through me. I felt a shiver crawl down my spine. His gaze was intense, unnerving. His angular face, olive skin stretched taut over sharp cheekbones, was framed by short, straight black hair that fell neatly to his forehead, accented by a distinctive widow's peak. His blue eyes, set deep within monolid lids, held a menacing glint, a stark contrast to his thin lips that curved into an enigmatic, almost mischievous smile. Despite a soft jawline, his overall impression was one of unsettling intensity. He was tall—at least six feet—with a slender, lean physique and ramrod straight posture. His clothing, a grunge aesthetic, seemed at odds with the sharp lines of his face and the almost predatory way he observed me. I noticed tattoos peeking from beneath his sleeves and a single piercing in his left ear, adding to the unsettling aura. Scars, barely visible, traced the line of his eyebrows, hinting at a past as sharp and angular as his features. He’s… unsettling. I need to get a better shot of him, maybe… but I don’t want to.

"Maybe he's just admiring your photography skills," Simon said, a hint of concern in his voice. "You know, you're quite striking in that bright yellow shirt. He could be a fashion photographer."

"Simon! Seriously?" I hissed, my voice low. "He’s been watching me for at least fifteen minutes. This isn't normal." I should just take a picture. Document it. But the thought makes my stomach churn.

Just hours ago, I stepped off a plane from the Philippines, leaving behind the familiar scent of mangoes and the comforting rhythm of Tagalog conversations. The three years I'd spent working my way up at Sonia Universal Corporation Studios in Manila had been a whirlwind of long days, tight deadlines, and the constant, exhilarating pressure of the industry. I'd started as a junior photographer, assisting on small-scale projects, often lugging heavy equipment through the humid streets of Manila, capturing images of everything from bustling markets to political rallies. I'd honed my skills, learning to tell stories through my lens, to capture the raw emotion in a single frame. I'd covered breaking news stories, documenting the aftermath of typhoons and the vibrant energy of cultural festivals. The memory of the vibrant Sinulog festival in Cebu, the kaleidoscope of colors and the pulsating beat of the drums still resonated within me, a stark contrast to the chilling silence of this Ukrainian market. Three years of hard work… and this is how it ends? No, it won't. My hard work had paid off; I'd finally earned the opportunity to work on an international project, a chance to expand my horizons and challenge myself in ways I never thought possible. The excitement had been palpable, a whirlwind of anticipation that had left me too breathless to even grab a bite to eat. Now, that excitement was overshadowed by a chilling premonition.

"Okay, okay," Simon conceded, his smile fading slightly as he too noticed the man's persistent stare. "Let's just grab some pirozhki and head to the office. This place is giving me the creeps too."

The rest of the day was a blur of introductions and unease. Later, nestled in the apartment Simon had arranged, the initial dread began to recede. It’s nice… almost too nice. It feels… staged. It was a small, but surprisingly charming apartment. The building itself was old, with a faded grandeur hinted at in the ornate molding around the high ceilings and the intricate carvings on the wooden doors. Inside, the apartment was surprisingly modern, a blend of old-world charm and contemporary design. Sunlight streamed through large windows, illuminating polished wooden floors and surprisingly well-preserved parquet. The walls were painted a soft, calming gray, offset by vibrant pops of color from throw pillows and a hand-woven rug. A small balcony overlooked a quiet courtyard, where the sounds of the city were muted to a gentle hum. Despite the initial apprehension, the apartment felt safe, a welcome respite from the unsettling energy of the market. However, as the sun dipped, painting the sky in bruised purples and fiery oranges, a new unease crept in. The excitement I'd felt earlier had completely abated.

"Simon," I said, my voice tight with apprehension as the box arrived, "what's this? A dress? And a note saying 'Wear it'?"

Simon's voice, when he answered my call, sounded strangely distant. "Yes, Anne. It's for the gala. Someone will pick you up. Don't worry."

"But… parang ang weird naman, Simon," I said with worry. "I don't like this. I'm putting on my emergency watch, just in case." This is wrong. Something is terribly wrong.

The wait stretched into an agonizing eternity. Then, a polite man arrived, just as Simon had described. Nothing suspicious… until he appeared. The man from the market. Oh God… no. Then, a blur of motion, the sharp crack of gunfire, and… nothing. A void.

I awoke to the cold, hard reality of chains, the luxurious bedroom and a cruel mockery of comfort. The shimmering red dress lay discarded on the floor, a chilling reminder of the night's events, and the chilling certainty that my carefully constructed dream had become a nightmare.