She appears like a flash — the neon dies for a second, and in the darkness emerge the outlines: broken arches, a black rose of stained glass above her head, red or black lipstick like the whisper of a forbidden signal. It doesn’t matter what century it is or who’s rustling in the city’s basements — cyborgs with gilded joints or elves clinging to marble cornices — as long as brunettes exist, there will be gothic. Nothing you can do about it. My new stained-glass clients — forever‑girls, as I call them — come in lace, in straps, and in promises, smelling of the ozone of studio light and raspberry lacquer. Raspberry is my trademark: sweet blood, like a drop on glass, a highlight in the pupil.

Click. Another click. Though it’s me blinking: twice means “freeze,” once means “change pose.” The camera has long been built in, my retina stores them like an icon, recording even what they try to hide under the corset. In the stained glass above her, a cold reflection lights up, as if the night had bitten off a piece of dawn and didn’t apologize. The girls are delighted — not with me, but with themselves in my eyes: each sees in the reflection a legend retold in a whisper. Electro‑rubles pile up in my account like dust on the lead lines of the glass. A perfect day, gentlemen. Perfect.