The Call Rain tapped steadily against the cracked windowpane of Amira Lewis's studio apartment. Outside, the city was already wide awake—vendors shouting over traffic, horns blaring, and the smell of wet dust clinging to the morning air. But inside her dimly lit room, everything felt still. Quiet. Too quiet.
Her camera sat untouched on the cluttered desk, buried under bills and unpaid invoices. She hadn't shot anything in two weeks. Not since the campaign she worked so hard for fell through. The client ghosted at the last minute, claiming "internal restructuring." That job was supposed to cover her rent and groceries for the next three months.
Now her bank app blinked red every time she dared to open it.
She exhaled sharply, ran her hand through her hair, and stared at the open freelance board on her laptop. Jobs came and went within minutes. The only ones left were the kind that paid in "exposure," "gifts," or "possible social media mentions." None of that could buy plantain or pay her landlord.
At 1:47 AM, she finally closed the browser, rubbed her eyes, and slumped back into her chair. Her body was exhausted, but her mind raced. She needed something. Anything.
That's when her phone buzzed.
2:03 AM.
A new message popped up in her inbox. No subject line. No formal greeting. Just a short, bold message:
"You've been highly recommended. Urgent one-day bridal shoot. High pay. Private estate, Montenegro. Non-disclosure required."
The signature was even stranger: just the initials K.A.
Attached was a PDF contract. Her name was already typed in at the top. Her full legal name. Her business license number. Her address.
She sat up.
Whoever sent this knew exactly who she was. The document was professional—clean layout, sharp legal clauses, and a promise of €9,000 for a single shoot. All travel, lodging, and meals covered. A first-class flight to Podgorica. Equipment-only request. No assistant required.
There was no client name. No wedding planner. Just the date: Arrival in 24 hours.
Amira reread it twice. The number stuck in her head. €9,000. In a week where she was wondering if she could afford another bag of rice.
She should've said no.
It had red flags written all over it. Anonymous client. Remote location. No prior communication. No point of reference.
But it also had something else she hadn't felt in weeks—hope.
She checked the sender's payment portal. The funds were already escrowed and tagged in her name.
Something tightened in her stomach. Logic screamed, Don't do this. But survival whispered, You can't afford not to.
After another five minutes of pacing, she opened her email, hesitated only a second, and typed:
"Confirmed. Please send full itinerary."
Exactly one minute later, a reply arrived.
Flight: 19:40 – Lagos → Podgorica Pickup: Private driver on arrival Dress Code: Casual. Bring only your equipment. NDA: Implied by acceptance. Welcome.
No name. No call. Just... silence after that.
She stared at the screen, heart thudding.
This was either a dream job or the kind of story that made the news.
And she'd just agreed to walk into it.