Page 9 of Taken Off Camera
“What kind of story would you like to hear?”
I pull the comforter up to my chin. “Something with a happy ending. Not enough of those in real life.”
He considers this, and the clink of ice against glass drifts through the speakers as he takes a drink. Then his deep baritone fills my bedroom, flowing like warm honey through the speakers.
“Once there was a watchman who lived in a towerby the sea,” he begins. “Every night, he would climb to the top and light a beacon to guide ships to harbor.”
There’s a texture to the way he speaks, not quite rough, but rich, like expensive whiskey that warms me to the core. His cadence rises and falls like waves, pulling me deeper into both the story and my drowsiness.
“The watchman had never set foot on any of the ships he guided. He’d never traveled beyond the shore, never seen the faces of those he protected night after night. But still, he climbed the tower. Still, he lit the light.”
My eyelids grow heavier as I listen. The laptop screen blurs, and I stop focusing on the image of GentlemanX as I lose myself in the way he pauses between sentences, giving each one space to breathe. The way he emphasizes certain words.
“One night, during a terrible storm, a ship came too close to the rocks. The watchman spotted the small vessel through his telescope, tossed by waves higher than its mast.”
I struggle to stay awake, determined to learn how the story ends.
GentlemanX continues, softer now as if he can tell I’m drifting. “He knew the beacon wouldn’t beenough. For the first time in his life, the watchman left his tower. He ran down to the shore, where he found an old rowboat…”
His words flow through the darkness behind my closed eyelids, painting images more vivid than any screen could display. The pauses between his sentences grow longer, more gentle, like he’s laying each word carefully beside me on the pillow.
“The storm raged, but the watchman rowed. His arms burned, his lungs fought for breath, but he kept his eyes on the struggling ship…”
My breathing slows, matching the rhythm of his storytelling. I catch fragments now, pieces of the tale floating through my consciousness like debris on a receding tide.
“…reached the ship…found a child alone…brought her safely to shore…”
The words blur together, their meaning less important than the comfort they bring. His steady murmur wraps around me like a blanket, a shield against the darkness beyond my windows and the memory of that disturbing package.
“…and so the watchman was no longer alone in his tower. Each night, they would climb the stairs together and light the beacon, guiding other lost souls home.”
As sleep takes hold, a strange sense of safety washes over me, like I’m that child in the story, rescued from a storm by a man whose face I’ve never seen.
A contented sigh escapes me before consciousness slips away. “Thank you…”
Through the haze of near-sleep, his response comes so quietly it might be my imagination. “Sleep well…”
Through the haze, I think he whispers my real name.
Or maybe it’s just my dreams, carrying me away on the tide of his voice, as the connection between us remains open long after I’ve fallen asleep.
3
The fluorescent lights of CyberLink Cafe flicker above me as I hunch deeper into my hoodie, focused on the laptop screen. Here, nobody pays attention to another masked face curled toward a computer.
Perfect.
My fingers dance across the keyboard while I scan the room one more time, confirming I’m still positioned in the blind spot between the two security cameras mounted in the corners.
The scent of burnt coffee and grease from the burger place next door mingles with the sour tang of bodies that have been sitting too long without moving. The clacking of keyboards, hushed conversations, and the hiss of the espresso machine atthe back of the shop offer a blanket of anonymity better than any VPN.
But I use those, too, three of them bouncing my signal across continents before I even think about opening a browser.
The barista calls out an order, and I keep my head down as a man in a wrinkled suit approaches the counter. The laptop I’m using isn’t mine, not really. It’s a burner, paid for in cash at a pawn shop across town. Nothing connects back to me or The Solace.
A server pauses at my table, coffee pot in hand. “You want a refill?”
I shake my head without looking up. “No thanks.”
