The sky above the old town district slowly dissolved, leaving behind a fading amber hue that yielded to the encroaching darkness of dusk, spreading like a drop of ink spilled over white linen. At the end of a quiet, cobblestone alley, Arya stood frozen in front of a two-story building with a weathered wooden sign whose paint had long since peeled away: Haris Photography Studio.

This place now officially belonged to him—or more precisely, it was the final inheritance left behind by his grandfather, Haris, who had been found dead under mysterious circumstances inside the studio's bathroom three weeks ago.

Arya drew a long breath, but the air that filled his lungs only tightened his chest. The scents of thick dust, decaying timber, and oxidized paper immediately assaulted his senses. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out an old iron key that felt ice-cold against his damp palm.

Screeech...

The grating sound of the rusty iron gate shored through the quiet of the evening, echoing sharply off the walls of the surrounding empty buildings. A cold chill rippled down Arya’s spine. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. An unfamiliar dread crept into his chest—a heavy premonition urging him to turn back, leave his small suitcase behind, and run as far away from this place as possible.

"Don't be an idiot, Arya. This is where your grandfather made a living. It's just an old building that needs cleaning," Arya muttered to himself, trying to quiet his hammering heart.

He stepped across the threshold. Thick dust motes swirled wildly in the air, dancing lazily beneath the dying rays of twilight piercing through the grimy windowpanes. The atmosphere inside felt significantly colder than outside, as if all the warmth of the sun had been entirely swallowed by the damp, aging concrete walls.

His footsteps produced a dull thud that echoed across the worn-out ceramic floor. Arya let his gaze wander around the front room of the studio. Various old photo frames hung crookedly on the wall—black-and-white portraits of people from a bygone era, their expressions stiff and hollow, as though they were watching him walk by. For some strange reason, the corners of Arya's eyes caught the unsettling impression that the painted eyes in those portraits were shifting to follow his every move.

Just my imagination. This must be because I'm exhausted from the trip, he thought, trying to steady his frayed nerves. He swallowed hard, his throat painfully dry.

Arya walked toward the reception desk in the middle of the room, where a large teak wood table laden with stacks of old photo albums stood. With his breath still coming in short gasps, he lifted his small suitcase and prepared to set it down on the desk to begin unpacking.

However, the moment the bottom of his suitcase touched the wooden surface...

CLICK-SNAP.

A sickeningly familiar mechanical sound rasped sharply from the darkest corner of the room. It was a distinct sound—the gears of an antique Polaroid camera spitting out a film roll, accompanied by a sudden flash of blinding white light cutting through the dim twilight.

Arya jolted violently, instinctively leaping backward until his hip slammed against a wooden chair. His heart felt as though it had dropped straight out of his chest. His breath hitched in his throat.

He stood paralyzed, staring in horror toward the corner of the room where an antique Polaroid camera rested upon a weathered tripod. That camera... a camera that hadn't been touched in decades, a camera that didn't even have a battery or any power source inside it.

On the camera's tiny tray, a wet photographic print slowly emerged, venting a wisp of sulfur-scented vapor. Arya swallowed hard, his entire body instantly stiffening while his mind screamed in sheer terror as the developing Polaroid image began to take shape.

It was a picture of himself, standing frozen in front of the reception desk with a deathly pale face—shot from an empty corner of the room, right at that exact second.

And right beside Arya's reflection in the photo, a long, emaciated, blackened arm was stretching out from the absolute darkness, poised to wrap its fingers around his shoulder.