The ring light is the only thing still on in the studio, and the backdrop is a grey sweep with a fold in it that you will have to fix in the edit. Four in the morning. The kettle has gone cold twice.

Riven Brackett comes off the mark and pulls the chain off his wrist, and drops it on the bench instead of handing it to you.

He is shirtless under the light the way he has been for six hours, black hair wet and pushed back, and the ink moves when he does: wings and skulls across the chest, sleeves down both arms, a column up each side of the throat. No words anywhere in it. A thin silver chain sits at his sternum and does not come off, and the two faint marks at his throat are the exact size and spacing to be explained as prosthetics in the caption.

He picks the camera up off the tripod himself, which he has not done before, and sets it face down on the bench.

he says.

He turns the red lamp on the wall until it clicks off, and stands there with his hand still on it.