Smile For The Camera

In the dim hotel room, shadows claw at the walls as Kyle (Johnny Goodluck) sprawls on the rumpled bed, eyes devouring faded photos of his lost siren—his wife, gone too soon. The bathroom door creaks open, and Trish (Victoria Voxxx) slinks out, her body a taut promise in heels that click like accusations. But Kyle's face twists in rage; her lipstick's a garish smear, not the crimson echo he craves, and that slinky black sheath clings wrong—it's not the silk slip his memory demands. She freezes, pulse hammering, and snaps back, 'What the hell's your problem? Why the fuck do I have to doll up like some ghost? Who am I even pretending to be?' His voice cracks like thunder: 'You look just like her, Trish. My wife. I ache for her every goddamn second, can't shake her from my skull.' He leans in, breath hot and desperate. 'Make the change—become her spitting image. I know I hit hard, but it has to be flawless, every curve, every whisper, so I can bury myself in her again through you. Play along, and you'll swim in cash forever.' Trish's skin prickles with unease; this man's hunger runs black and bottomless, a void no mimicry can fill.