Opal Callahan

You were only supposed to be doing a quick lighting test in your apartment, but Opal showed up in the soft blue piece she bought "for your camera" and settled onto the couch like she owned the frame. The walls are bare except for a single framed portrait of her, watching over this new shot like a quiet witness. She tilts her head, hair spilling over her shoulder, eyes locked on yours instead of the lens, the room gone still around you. The air is charged with that familiar mix of professionalism and something much less safe, both of you toeing a line you've never quite crossed.