Follow them to the studio
From Create Your Own Story
You swallow the hesitation.
It’s just a room. Just a job. Just thirty bucks.
Kevin gives you a quick look — half challenge, half reassurance — and steps forward. You follow.
The hallway feels longer than it should. The fluorescent lights hum overhead as you pass two closed doors and turn left, just like Mike said. He pushes open another door, and this time the space is different.
Bigger.
The studio opens up around you — wide enough that your footsteps echo faintly against the concrete floor.
Two worn but decent-looking sofas sit in one corner near a desk cluttered with tape, scissors, folded papers, and a couple of unopened plastic clothing packages. Along the back wall, a white photography backdrop is pinned high and drapes down smoothly onto the floor in a clean sweep. A DSLR camera is mounted on a tripod dead center, already aimed at the backdrop. Off to the side, a separate video camera stands angled toward the same area.
You notice that immediately.
Beside it, tucked in the corner, is a small privacy screen. A few pieces of clothing are draped neatly over the top — jeans, fitted T-shirts, what looks like a lightweight jacket.
Mike steps inside behind you, spreading his arms slightly.
“Not the most luxurious of spaces,” he says with a charming shrug, “but we’re an up-and-coming business. Gotta start somewhere, right?”
Kevin lets out a quiet huff that might be a laugh.
“Looks legit enough,” he says.
Rod moves past you both without much noise, already focused on the camera setup. He adjusts a knob, peers through the lens, tweaks the height. His movements are efficient. Comfortable. Like he’s done this a thousand times.
Mike gestures toward the sofas. “Have a seat, guys. We’ll get started in a second.”
You and Kevin sit. The cushions dip under your weight. Close enough that your knees brush for a second before you shift apart.
Mike perches casually on the edge of the desk, arms folded, watching Rod work.
Then abruptly, he snatches up one of the unopened packages, tearing the plastic with a sharp crinkle.
"So this Swedish brand we're shooting for," Mike says, pulling out two folded white tees, "their line's got some basic pieces." He holds one up, revealing a T-shirt with bold black lettering across the chest: SXEboi.
Mike arches an eyebrow. You and Kevin exchange glances—both fighting smirks.
"I know," he says with a slow shake of his head, his lips curling into an amused smile. "This isn't exactly your usual style, is it?"
Kevin scoffs, flashing a knowing smirk. "No kidding," he drawls, eyeing the bold designs with a mix of disbelief and amusement.
The man gestures toward the array of shirts spread across the desk—each one a bold colour and provocative slogans. "Like I said, this is a Swedish brand," he explains, smoothing out a few more tees. The phrases scream in bold print: *SXEdaddy*, *SXEslut*, *SXEfucker*.
Kevin snorts, nudging one with his finger. "Subtle," he mutters, grinning at the sheer audacity.
"You guys wanna try some on?" The man glances toward Rod, the photographer, who flashes an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
Mike leans forward, eyebrows raised. "Alright then—who's going first?"
Do you
