Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 38333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
So I walk to the backdrop without question. Step onto the black. Turn to face her.
This is the only thing she wants from me. The only gift I can give her. My body as her subject. My presence as her art. The chance to create beauty out of the broken Kane boy nobody else sees.
Eleanor lifts her camera and begins directin' me.
"Turn this way." Her voice is soft. Professional. "Lift your chin just slightly. Good. Now look at the light—not at me, at the light."
I follow her instructions. Every word a command I obey without hesitation.
"Take off your jacket."
I shrug out of the leather. Let it fall.
"Your shirt."
I pull the black t-shirt over my head. Stand there bare-chested, tattoos on display—the biblical war inked across my back and arms, the tally marks near my collarbone that nobody asks about, all the evidence of violence and devotion permanently marked into my skin.
Eleanor's breath catches. "Beautiful," she whispers. Then, louder—"Turn around. Slowly."
I turn. Let her see the descent of angels on my shoulder blades, the chain-binder demon down my spine, all the mythology I've wrapped myself in like armor against a world that decided I was damned before I learned to walk.
The shutter clicks. Once. Twice. Over and over, the sound punctuatin' the silence between us like a heartbeat, like breath, like the rhythm of creation itself.
"Face me again."
I do.
"Your jeans. You can leave the rest, but—"
I unbuckle my belt. Unbutton. Unzip. Push denim and boxer-briefs down together and step out of everything, standin' completely naked on back paper under hot lights while Eleanor Ashby—mother of the girl I've been fuckin' in secret since we were teenagers—photographs every inch of me.
No shame. No hesitation. Just givin' her what she needs.
The shutter clicks. Methodical and professional. Eleanor workin' with the precision of someone who's done this ten-thousand times, who knows exactly what angle catches light best, what pose reveals truth instead of hidin' it.
She circles me. Captures me from every direction. Every line. Every scar. The tattoos. The muscle. The evidence of hard labor and harder livin'. Everything.
I stand any way she wants me. Patient. Present. Lettin' her create whatever she needs to create.
Minutes pass. Maybe an hour. Time stops meanin' anything under the lights, with the shutter clickin', with Eleanor hummin' softly to herself the way artists do when they're lost in their work.
Finally, she lowers the camera.
Satisfied. Complete. Whatever she came here to capture, she got it.
"Thank you," she says, and there's tears in her eyes now, though she's still smilin'. "You have no idea what this means to me."
I want to ask why. Want to understand what she sees when she looks at me through that lens. Want to know if she's photographin' Legion Kane or the ghost of my father.
But I don't ask. Just nod. Start pullin' my clothes back on while Eleanor packs up her camera, saves the film, makes notes in a leather-bound journal about exposure settings, and lighting ratios, and whatever technical details matter to her.
And standin' here now in her underground-bunker archive, surrounded by the aftermath of her life's work, I actually do laugh. Because I just realized somethin'.
If Eleanor had been alive when I went to prison, my whole world would've fallen apart.
Because I would've never went to prison if Eleanor was here to stop it.
She would've moved heaven and earth to get me off, even if I begged her not to. Would've hired lawyers, called in favors, leveraged every connection the Ashby name carried. Would've made it impossible for me to give up three years of my life to a man who was gonna betray me anyway.
My sacrifice only worked because she was already gone.
That's the only reason I'm here, soaked in dirt that smells like blood.
Because my angel, it turns out, wasn't Savannah Ashby.
It was Eleanor.
Savannah moves to an antique safe built into the wall. Early 1900s steel, fireproof, surrounded by cinderblocks like it's holdin' nuclear codes instead of photographs.
She knows the combination by heart. Spins the dial, memory guidin' her fingers through the sequence.
The safe door swings open with a heavy metallic groan.
And there it is.
Red leather. Hand-bound. Thirteen by thirteen inches. Five hundred and twelve pages of my life rendered into art by a woman who saw me when nobody else did.
Savannah lifts it out with both hands. Reverent. Careful. Like she's carryin' something sacred that might shatter if she breathes wrong.
She turns and extends it toward me.
I take it.
The weight surprises me—heavier than I remember, thick with paper, and memories, and Eleanor's relentless documentation of a boy who wasn't supposed to matter.
I carry the book to a velvet couch against the far wall and sink down into cushions. Savannah settles beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch.
I open the Book of Legion.
First page: me at maybe two years old. Dust-streaked skin, messy blond hair catchin' sunlight. I'm holdin' a Matchbox car, blue eyes wide and bright, smilin' at somethin' off-camera.