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The rose of the sun tailed the world across mud and shaft.

A man, half-clothed in animal hides, his nose pierced with bone, his eyes scarred in a cross—walked with the trembling breath of a single bead slipping down his thick chest.

Desperate. Careful. Heavy with purpose.

His hand dove through the picking raft. He took a stone hoe and a cutlass. Around his shoulder slung a long gun, the barrel dulled by the dust of journeys.

He passed as the sky gloomed like evening, though the morning had only just broken its yolk.

Passing the blind Shan, who muttered to the gods in a tongue of fetishes and old prayers, kneeling before a bone flame—embers from a night long gone.

The young man, his hands bound with leather twine, walked across rough stone slick with streamwater. The rocks simmered in the sun. The air carried the sounds of waterfalls and birds, and the distant cries of ancestor tales hanging like incense.

His cutlass wept the tall grasses of the forest.

Then, a sudden stillness.

He lunged—caught something. His pouch rumbled as he strode back, eyes low.

He greeted a few clansmen, their bodies glistening with red ochre and sweat, excited with hushed voices about some quiet happening. But his face held only a frown.

He passed the vibrant hum of village life—the smoky scent of monape wood, goat dung, and clay.

A girl sat among the women, her hair being clayed, becoming a woman by ritual. Her eyes flickered shyly toward him. He smiled—small, unsure—then lowered his gaze when he caught the stare of her groom, neck heavy with beads, wearing the iron-smith's cap of worth.

Children screamed joy into the air. Women stirred heavy pots. Somewhere, a clemon brew bubbled for the newlyweds.

The morning's feverish chill had long given way to the clamor of goats and voices.

He walked toward a patch hut, low and woven. The scent of crushed roots and herbal smoke crept out of its seams.

Inside, an old woman—blind, her hair like spilled ash—reached for his pouch. She opened it, sniffed the contents. Incest leaf.

She pounded it into a fine powder, her motions rough, and packed it onto the wound of a young woman writhing .

 Al mine edited version.

Ka-chunk

The family gathered around their various vices. Justin set his camera down, scrolling through shots with a family member nearby.

The smell of barbecue and punch drifted through the air. With nothing else to do, he helped himself to a cup—silent sips, eyes sharp, just observing.

He noticed the quiet hypocrisy of each member: all smiles, all ulcers underneath. Extended family, extended tension. Like a black spider that can't be killed.

"She's trying to get into his pants, isn't she?" someone muttered beside him.

Justin didn't answer. Didn't laugh. Didn't care. He tuned out the grand speeches, wandering off, wondering why anyone would celebrate being isolated from people—why someone would abandon everything to live alone in their father's wooded home.

Later, the family gave the guests a tour of the house. Justin, reluctant at first, found himself amazed.

The narrow hallways were packed with relics—old artifacts marked with scars and stories. But two paintings pulled him in while the others drifted off.

The first: two humans in cave skins, mid-act, sex primal and forward. At first glance, it was just shocking. But look longer—and you'd see the woman was dead. Her hair clayed. Her limbs limp. The man above her wore thick beads around his neck.

 It's was something that was faint and unoticee. His step echo a bit more.

And their was another: figures from the same tribe, bowing to a white man in a tailored suit, handing him something—maybe sacred.

Justin paused, mouth slightly open. His fingers brushed the camera out of instinct. His mouth parted but close and eye narrowed with unrecognizable need to bring his camera to his eyes.

"Majestic, isn't it?"

He flinched, hand to his chest. Turning, he found himself face-to-face with the speaker: Robert, 75, the head of the family. Eyes milky with age but piercing. He walked with a low, dragging step—like the past clinging to his bones.

"This house... it's a relic," Robert said. "Inherited from a man of high status. But the town?" He raised his cane slowly. "It faded. Like rare species. Like a cove full of treasure that man can't contain."

 Justin didn't say anything. He grip his camera and fake a smile to mask discomfort.

 So they stood.

He turned to Justin. "How old are you, boy?"

"Twenty-seven," Justin answered, voice cracking slightly.

Robert chuckled, tapping Justin's shoulder with the weight of time. "Such a young age. And a curious mind."

A pause. A heavy thump on Justin's shoulder.

"It'll take you far... Keep it up."

Justin raised his camera again, but Robert raised a hand. "No photos of the paintings."

 And he turned and fade away.

But Justin took the shots anyway.

Later. In his car.

Driving home. The windows rolled halfway down and music draft.

Justin's phone lights up with an incoming call. He taps his earbud in.

JUSTIN

Yo.

VOICE (DARIUS - LAUGHING)

You missed, bro. Man was pouring shots like he had beef with our kidneys.

Justin chuckles lightly, but his eyes are already tired.

DARIUS (CONT'D)

Jay tried to flirt with that waitress. You remember her? The one with the– (makes a slapping sound) damn!

ANOTHER VOICE (DISTANT)

Bro said he'd drink her bathwater!

Laughter erupts. Justin forces a laugh, stares ahead. His smile dies quick. He felt the wind and for few minutes wish to close his eyes.

DARIUS (CONT'D)

No, but real talk—if she said spit in my mouth, I'd say 'ma'am, yes ma'am.'

JUSTIN

(choking back a laugh)

Y'all wild.

DARIUS

Come on, don't act brand new. Ain't you the one who said the girl from HR had a freak look?

 His thumb scared his index .

JUSTIN

Nah, I was– I was joking.

Silence.

Then—

DARIUS

(playfully mocking)

My man getting soft on us. You okay, bro?

Justin's thumb hovers over the volume. His smile flickers out.

 " You coming right?"

 " Yeah."

 " Good, Darius and I got this drink you would love."

 " It's bone craving men..."

He ends the call with a tap.

A long silence.

Then his phone buzzes again. Messages flood in—one in particular makes his breath catch.

 So he read. A quick scroll and a half pass glance.

 Then again.

He slams the brakes.

The car jerks to a stop.

His hand trembles. His breath catches in his throat.

 The camera bag shifting slightly in the passenger seat in the mid of the night.He slams the brakes.

The car jerks to a stop.

His hand trembles. His breath catches in his throat.

 The camera bag shifting slightly in the passenger seat in the mid of the night.