16-Kit - Eight Months Ago
(Twenty-sixth of January, twenty twenty-five)
Greg barges into the shoot like he’s just sprinted from Soho.
Robert, the photographer, swears at him in French, but Greg doesn’t even flicker a look in his direction. He’s practically vibrating, like he’s mainlined three espressos.
“Streams from your last album just quadrupled,” he announces, “and the rest of your catalogue is climbing stupid fast.”
I blink against the harsh white lights, the heat prickling against the paint on my face. Judas’s new costume is heavier; like it’s been tailored not just to my body but to whatever I’ve become since the American deal.
My cloak drapes more cleanly over my shoulders.
Our runes are stitched along the hem, catching light in quick, secret flashes.
The fabric used to be pitch black, but now it’s a deep smoky grey, the colour of dawn before it decides whether to break.
It’s like the shadows are reluctantly peeling off me one layer at a time.
The mask is the same horned-monster, but the crack along the cheek has been deepened and faintly gilded at the edges, turning damage into something deliberate, sort of like wabi-sabi art.
I’ve been manufactured, like time fast-forwarded and expects me to keep pace.
I step off set, boots thudding against the floor as I ignore Robert’s annoyed muttering.
The concrete is dusted with glitter and stray bits of tape from the last setup.
Fog clogs up the air, the machine in the corner hissing as it warms up for the next shot.
It fills the space with a faint trace of sweet chemicals that remind me of old pubs and bad decisions.
The makeup table is cluttered with brushes, palettes, half-empty bottles of setting spray, and a mug of cold tea someone’s abandoned.
I catch my reflection and barely recognise myself.
Judas stares back as I glance in the mirror, bright bulbs tossing a glow across my red face. He’s stepping out of the dark with me, whether I’m ready or not. I wipe a smudge of silver glitter from my cheek with the back of my hand. Bigger deals means bigger spectacles.
“Here.” Greg shoves his phone into my hands. “Have a look.”
The editor has stitched together moments from the last tour; me screaming into a mic, collapsing to my knees, and reaching out to the crowd like I’m begging them to save me.
It’s a montage of fast cuts, slow-motion shots, flashing stage lights, and smoke curling around my boots.
Don’t Hurt Yourself Anymore plays in the background, but it’s remixed with a darker, heavier sound, adding to the sensual ambience. The views have hit over three million.
“Christ.”
“That’s it,” Greg says, grinning like he’s about to ascend, “thank the lord for social media! This is going to open some major doors for you kids.”
I let out a short, disbelieving laugh and hand the phone back. “Who made it?”
“Uh, give me a sec.” Greg squints as he leans into his phone and scrolls. “Zachary Blake. Cinematographer. And a bloody good one, if you ask me.”
“Find them!” Somnium’s urgent whisper invades my consciousness like an impulsive thought.
Everything enhances, like someone’s turned the saturation up on reality. Greg tries to give me the phone, but I don’t move straight away. Ringing takes over my senses, a fine-tuned pitch as though a wind chime sways inside my head.
Greg shoves his phone into my hand, opened to Zachary Blake’s profile.
Rows of thumbnails cover the screen, revealing cinematic shots of bands mid-performance, backstage moments, interview stills, and crowd reactions.
The man’s got an eye, that’s for sure. Each frame is intentional, like he’s establishing every living moment as a story of its own rather than a simple chapter.
I tap on a playlist for Masonary, a band Daemonium toured with last year. The camera lingers on the lead singer’s trembling hands as he intimately adjusts his mic. Its focus rises to the beading sweat on his brow, only to pan down just as he steps into the light.
There’s a shot of a drummer wrapping his hands backstage before a show, the camera loitering on the minuscule shake of his palms. A slow-motion clip shows a guitarist smashing his final chord, sweat flying off him like sparks. The frame manages to catch the exact moment the music leaves his body.
I watch a quiet interview with the lead vocalist of The Vacant Choir, her voice cracking as she talks about losing her mum.
The camera doesn’t flinch. It holds her gently in frame, like it understands grief.
Every video has the same feeling. Zach isn’t simply filming people; he’s revealing them, stripping them to the barest parts.
It’s dreadfully magnificent.
An aerial-view clip from Daemonium performing back-up for Masonary pops up next, probably shot with some type of drone.
The camera pans across the crowd, then zooms in on the harmonisers as they step into position.
Pamrata’s poised and regal, Whitney loose-limbed and smirking, Liane glowing with that sincerity she carries like a lantern.
I spot a person off-centre, two rows down from the stage barrier. A flash of a profile, with wild curls. They hold a camera, pressing their free hand to their chest as the music swells, as if the frequency carries through their bones.
I rewind, pause, then zoom.
The image pixelates, but I can still make out the curve of her jaw, the fall of her mane, and the way she leans toward the stage like she’s listening with her entire body.
I recognise her as easily as a newborn identifies their mother’s voice. I’ve caught glimpses of that face a thousand times in the last decade. Always like this; far and out of focus. A force penetrates my chest, squeezing the blood from my heart like water from a sponge.
“Who in the hell is this Zachary?” I ask, forcing my gaze from the screen.
And how does he know my dream woman?
“No clue.”
Greg’s expression sours as I pull out my phone and dial Pamrata.
“Oi, what’s up?” Pamrata asks, picking up on the second ring.
“I need you to tell me everything you know about Zachary Blake.”
Her voice crackles faintly through the speaker, the studio’s terrible reception turning the signal to static as I pace. The fog machine hisses again, sending a thin veil of mist drifting across the room.
“What?”
“Zachary Blake,” I say, staring at Greg’s phone in my other hand. The profile is still open, thumbnails glowing like tiny portals. “Cinematographer. Apparently a bloody genius.”
Pamrata hums, thoughtful and assessing. “Oh, Zach! Yeah, she’s great.”
I freeze. My chest cranks tight, plucked like a guitar string.
“She,” I repeat, disbelief cracking through my voice. “She?”
“What, you thought Zach was gonna be some bloke with a beard and a podcast?” she teases, a cheeky giggle threading through her words. “I told you about her last summer, remember? Goes to show how much you actually listen.”
“I listen,” I protest weakly.
Pamrata snorts. “Absolute bollocks. Anyway, I’ve got a rehearsal—”
“I’m so daft,” I cut in, remembering her show in the West End. “Of course. Thank you.”
“Anytime, mate.”
The call ends but Zach stays with me. It’s her—I know it as well as I know the keys of a piano. I let my arms fall to my sides, the phones weighing more than they should. For the first time the story is shifting under my feet, but it’s not me who will take the next steps.
Somnium finally drew her in, and I will most certainly be paying the price.