Ren Mackenzie's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

Morning light hit the rainbow press as Ren fed another blank jersey under its plate. By noon, a small army of ripped horror shirts hung drying on hooks. She stepped back, proud — then her stomach dropped. She had product, but no way to show it. Who would back a designer with no real photos? Her pitch email would die on arrival. Ren grabbed her tools. She sketched fast and built faster. By dusk, a headless male form stood in the corner, lean and dark with red accents along the ribs. Beside it, a sharper female shape took shape under her hands, all gothic curves and bloodied detail. She wheeled out a heavy clothes rack next, hammering ornate hangers along its bar. Red paint dripped down the black iron like fresh wounds. The torn ghost-face jersey went on first. It looked alive on the form. It looked like a product. Then she frowned. The light was wrong. Flat. Cheap. No scream-queen would look twice at a flash-bleached snapshot. Ren dragged scrap wood into the center of the room and built a tall frame. She clamped a roll of seamless paper across it and bolted gothic spikes along the top edge. She rigged two clip lamps to the frame's arms and angled them down. The jersey on the mannequin caught the light just right — shadows deep in every claw rip, the ghost face glowing cold. Ren laughed out loud. The set looked like a movie still. She lifted her phone, then lowered it. Her own hands shook too much. The shot had to be perfect. Ren needed a photographer — someone steady, someone real. The studio was ready. The line was ready. Now she just had to find the eye behind the lens.