Hank woke slowly, the warmth of the morning sun creeping in through the thin hotel curtains, casting soft lines of light across the sheets tangled around his legs. The room was still, quiet… so unlike the whirlwind energy and passion of the night before.
He reached across the bed, half expecting to feel skin, hair, the presence of someone beside him.
But it was empty.
They were gone.
He blinked slowly, mind stirring to life as memories filtered in like light through stained glass. Ashley’s laughter, soft and smoky. Maria’s touch, confident and hypnotic. The rhythm of breathless moments, the sound of his own heartbeat echoing in his ears as the night spiraled into something unreal and unforgettable.
He smiled faintly, eyes still closed.
He’d never thought it possible… two women like that, ethereal and untouchable in every way… choosing to be with him. Not for fame. Not for performance. But something… real. Even if it had only lasted a night.
He turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling. There was no lingering perfume, no note on the pillow. Just the subtle impression of where they'd once laid, and the way his body still felt the echo of their presence.
His fingers touched his lips instinctively, as if trying to hold onto the last traces of their kisses.
"Maerisa…" he whispered to the quiet room, as if she might hear him through the walls… or through whatever veil she watched him from.
He knew, somehow, that this moment was part of her design. That she had nudged the path, shaped the opportunity. But he also knew it wasn’t manipulation. Not control. Not magic forcing his hand.
Choice.
That was what she'd said. Everything had to be his choice. And he’d made it.
But now… he wanted answers.
Hank sat up, the sheets slipping down his chest as he rubbed the sleep from his face. The bedside clock read 8:04 AM. One hour before the final day of the con would open its doors.
Sunday.
Usually the quietest day. The final breath of a chaotic, thrilling weekend. Most of the headliners would already be gone. The biggest stars, the wildest costumes, the flashy influencers… they'd had their moment. What was left were the dreamers, the passionate few, the ones who’d poured heart into their cosplays even if their seams weren’t perfect or their makeup wasn’t pristine.
And Hank made a quiet decision right then.
Today, everyone got a shot.
Even if they couldn’t pay. Even if they were shy, nervous, or unsure. No one would walk away without a photo if they wanted one. He wasn’t doing this for clout. He wasn’t doing this to get more likes, more tags, more attention.
He was doing this for them. And for himself.
He rose from the bed and stretched, his muscles still humming from the night’s intensity. There was a soreness, yes… but it came with pride. A strange sense of balance. Like something had shifted inside him.
He padded to the bathroom and flicked on the light, squinting against the brightness. He took a long piss, then turned on the shower, waiting for the water to heat before stepping in.
The spray hit him like a quiet revelation.
He let it wash over him… the night, the mystery of Maerisa, the unspoken transformation that was still unfolding. As the steam curled around him, Hank felt something new settle deep within his chest.
Not just confidence.
Not just desire.
Purpose.
And he welcomed it.
---
Maerisa moved like a shadow through the convention hall, her boots silent against the carpeted floor, her deep crimson cloak flowing behind her like liquid dusk. The Sunday crowd was thinner now, quieter… like the world itself was exhaling after days of bright noise and vivid color.
To anyone passing by, she was just another extraordinary cosplayer… unforgettable, yes, but harmless. They couldn’t see her for what she truly was.
Not yet.
Her violet eyes scanned the corridors, the flickering banners, the thinning lines outside booths. But her attention was fixed elsewhere… on Hank.
She had watched him long into the night.
She’d felt the energy shift the moment the twins entered his room… Ashley and Maria, both radiant in their own right, full of longing and curiosity. And by the time they left, slipping out just after three in the morning, Hank had already drifted into a deep sleep… a sleep of satisfaction and quiet awakening.
Maerisa had smiled, perched unseen on a nearby rooftop. He was close. Closer than ever.
Not yet complete… but nearly there.
Maybe two or three more nights. Maybe two or three more hearts to open.
Her boots echoed softly as she stepped through the less-traveled hallway beside the staff offices. Here, the mood was calmer, the noise more distant, the crowds thinned to volunteers and coordinators packing up boxes and checking off lists.
A burst of laughter caught her ear.
She turned, glancing into a half-open doorway. Inside, a young woman leaned against a desk, phone pressed to her ear, a bright blue staff lanyard bouncing against her chest as she giggled.
“Seriously? With that Spider-Man?” she laughed, her voice full of amusement. “Girl, you have no shame. He was old enough to be your dad… and twice as round.”
Maerisa’s head tilted slightly, studying the scene.
The girl… barely twenty, maybe younger, was dressed casually in a crop hoodie and jeans, her hair pulled into a bouncy ponytail. Her voice was fast, teasing, but underneath the playful sarcasm, Maerisa sensed something else.
Loneliness.
Disappointment.
A lingering ache of not being chosen.
“Who would I fuck?” the girl said into the phone, mock-pouting now. “Please. The con’s basically over. Everyone hot is leaving today.”
Maerisa stepped closer to the doorway, remaining unseen.
She smiled… not cruelly, but knowingly. There was hunger in the girl’s heart. Not just for attention… but for something real. Something magical.
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Perfect.
She whispered a short incantation, her voice too soft for human ears but laced with ancient resonance. Her lips parted, and she blew a gentle kiss into the air. A tendril of faint violet smoke swirled from her mouth, invisible to mortals but thick with subtle power. It drifted through the crack in the door and found the girl’s lips.
She inhaled reflexively.
Her body tensed… just for a second. Then her shoulders relaxed, her smile softened. Her pupils widened slightly, and her voice dropped, contemplative.
“Actually…” she murmured, her tone different now, more thoughtful. “There is one guy.”
Maerisa paused, watching with a glint of satisfaction in her eyes.
The girl straightened, twirling the cord of her lanyard. “That photographer. Hank something. He’s been everywhere this weekend.”
There it was.
The spark.
Maerisa smiled to herself and turned, her crimson cloak catching a stray beam of sunlight as she slipped back into the shadowed hall.
Her work was done… for now.
Fate had been nudged. Desire awakened. And somewhere on the con floor, Hank was waiting, still unaware of the next step already rising to meet him.
---
The final day of the con moved with a quiet sort of momentum, the kind that came after the storm. Saturday had been a whirlwind… costumes, crowds, lights, laughter, and Sunday felt like the calm aftermath, where only the true enthusiasts remained. Hank had risen early, refreshed in body and soul, and made a quiet decision before he ever walked onto the floor:
Today would be about giving back.
He’d taken down the “$15 per shoot” sign and left only the small glass tip jar on the booth’s corner. It now read simply:
“Tips appreciated. Photos free today. Let’s make some magic.”
And people had responded.
Dozens came through his green-screen photo booth with nervous excitement and big smiles. Some dropped a few dollars into the jar. Many didn’t. Hank didn’t care. He was in his element… not as a businessman or influencer, but as a creator.
And then she arrived.
A girl, maybe fifteen years old, stepped shyly toward the booth, her hands clutching the hem of a deep red velvet cloak. She wore a beautifully simple Red Riding Hood costume… black corset laced with ribbon, a short ruffled skirt, white stockings with little wolf paw prints up the side. Her makeup was minimal, her cheeks a natural pink from either excitement or nerves.
Her eyes lit up when she saw the man behind the camera.
“Oh my god… you’re @HankShootsReal!” she gasped, her voice breathless with admiration. “I follow you on Insta… I love your photos. Like, all of them.”
Hank smiled warmly. “Thanks, that means a lot,” he said. “Your costume looks great, by the way.”
She looked down at her boots, suddenly bashful. “Thanks… I kinda pieced it together from stuff I already had.” She hesitated, her voice dipping. “I really wanted to get pictures today… like yours, I mean. But I can’t really afford it, so…”
Her tone was apologetic, even though she had nothing to apologize for.
Hank didn’t even blink.
“Guess it’s your lucky day,” he said, lifting his camera with a grin. “I’m not charging today. It’s completely free.”
She blinked at him. “Wait… really?”
He nodded. “Yep. No tricks. No catch.”
Her smile faltered. “My mom always says nothing is free. That when guys offer you something for nothing, it’s usually because they want something back.”
The words landed with a weight Hank understood all too well.
He shook his head gently. “I get it. But I’m not one of those guys,” he said calmly. “I’m not asking for anything. You get your pictures. I post a few tonight. If you like them, share them on your page and tag me. That’s it. Just wanted to help make the con a little more special.”
She watched him for a long moment, her eyes scanning his face for any hint of sarcasm or subtext. But there was none. Only kindness.
“Okay…” she said finally, a slow, cautious smile forming. “Really?”
He nodded. “Really.”
She stepped in front of the green screen, and he raised his camera. “All right, Red,” he said playfully. “Let’s bring this fairytale to life.”
She giggled, then struck her first pose… shy at first, then bolder. Hank kept his instructions gentle and verbal, careful not to startle her confidence.
“Lift your chin a bit. Good. Now hold your basket up like you're facing the wolf.”
“Perfect. Turn slightly. Great silhouette… hold it… there.”
He took fifteen photos, each better than the last, her expression slowly transforming from reserved to radiant. When they finished, he turned the camera and showed her a few shots on the screen.
Her eyes widened. “Oh my god… that’s me?”
“That’s you,” Hank said, smiling. “Keep an eye on my page tonight.”
She nodded eagerly, her face glowing with something beyond makeup or lighting… it was joy. She gave him a small wave as she left, and he watched her blend into the crowd, her red cloak bouncing as she walked.
He flipped open his notebook and jotted down her photo ID numbers, along with a note:
“Red Riding Hood – post no tag tonight. Gift.”
As he capped his pen, a soft voice came from just behind him.
“That was really nice of you.”
He turned and found a young woman standing there. She was maybe twenty, in staff black with a bright orange volunteer badge hanging around her neck. Pretty in a no-nonsense way… sharp eyes, a confident stance, and a natural warmth in her smile.
“Yeah,” Hank said, brushing a bit of hair from his brow. “Not everyone can afford this kind of experience. A little pro-bono work never hurts the soul.”
She nodded, clearly impressed. “Well… Lena asked me to come find you. She said there’s one last shoot they want before tear-down.”
“Oh?” he asked. “Something important?”
She grinned. “Just the full staff. Crew shot. Blue Studio, right after close.”
Hank chuckled and gestured at his setup. “After everything you guys gave me this weekend, I owe you twice over. I’ll be there.”
She flashed him a grateful smile. “I’ll let her know.”
As she turned to go, Hank watched her weave into the crowd, already mentally shifting gears for the final hours of the con. He looked down at the tip jar… still only half full, and smiled.
It wasn’t about what came in today. It was about what went out.
And that, he knew, was the real shot worth capturing.
---
The final three hours passed like a blur through Hank’s lens.
Click after click, smile after smile, he’d made it his mission to capture as many moments as he could for the hopefuls… the dreamers, the ones who had poured heart and imagination into their costumes even without the flashiest gear or professional finish. He'd photographed aspiring warriors in cardboard armor, fairies with handmade wings, shy girls dressed as anime schoolgirls, and even a boy with autism who dressed up as Doctor Strange and lit up when Hank told him, “You look just like him, man. Nailed it.”
For each person that stepped in front of his green screen, Hank made sure they knew the plan:
“Keep an eye on my page this week,” he said, his tone warm but direct. “They’ll start going up soon. I’ve got a mountain to climb… but trust me, you’ll see yourself up there.”
And they believed him. Not just because of his rising online rep… but because of the way he looked at them. Like they mattered. Like they belonged.
By the time the last cosplayer left his booth… a girl in a handmade Mandalorian outfit with glue still drying on her shin guards… the energy of the con had shifted.
The rush was over.
The music that had boomed from the main halls all weekend had quieted to a faint background hum. The crowd had thinned. Gone were the colorfully costumed masses, replaced by tired volunteers stacking chairs and exhibitors pulling down banners. Empty coffee cups sat abandoned on display tables, and the overhead lights had been switched from vibrant color mode to soft white.
This was the end.
Hank stood in the center of his booth and looked around. His backdrop was still up, the lights still positioned, but most of the foot traffic had vanished. His tip jar sat with a modest scattering of bills and coins inside. Enough to buy a few meals. Maybe a celebratory bottle.
But that wasn’t what he cared about.
He rubbed the back of his neck, stretching out the tension from the hours hunched behind the lens. “Damn,” he muttered, half to himself. “What a ride.”
Then he glanced down at his gear. His camera… his companion through all of it, was still warm from use. The screen showed the last photo he’d taken: a trio of friends in mismatched superhero gear, laughing like it was the best day of their lives.
He smiled.
It probably was.
As he began carefully breaking down his setup… collapsing the green screen frame, unplugging the lights, sorting memory cards… he allowed himself a moment of reflection.
The only thing he regretted… was never getting to experience the con for himself. He hadn’t walked the vendor halls. Hadn’t bought a keychain or poster or picked up an obscure collector’s pin. He hadn’t even tasted the overpriced nachos or stood in line for a panel. He’d been too busy working, too buried in the magic of making others feel seen.
And yet…
As he looked over the emptying floor… scattered bits of confetti, a forgotten mask, a stray foam sword… he didn’t feel cheated. He felt full.
What he’d done this weekend was bigger than merch or panels. He’d given hundreds of people the chance to see themselves in a new light. To be heroes, icons, legends… even if only for a frame or two.
He zipped his camera bag closed, the sound sharp in the quiet air. Then he reached into his backpack and pulled out a small bottle of aged whiskey he’d packed for celebration. He held it in one hand for a moment, then smirked.
“Well-earned.”
There were still two nights left in his hotel. Two nights of silence. No lines. No posing. No flirtation or fanfare.
Just him.
His laptop.
The thousands of pictures waiting to be edited.
And maybe a drink or two while the city outside forgot that, for one weekend, it had been a kingdom of dreamers.
