Gents Journey
Helping Men become the Gentleman they deserve to be. This Podcast is part inspiration part motivation. We discuss what it takes to be a Gentleman in the 21st Century. We also talk about how to deal with the internal and external battles that life throws at us. So come be apart of the Gents Journey!
Gents Journey
The Patience Of Predators: The Polaroids
What happens when the evidence of your life no longer matches your memory? When photographs appear showing you in places you've never been? When your reflection moves differently than you do?
"The Polaroids" plunges us into the fractured reality of Ashton Cross, a successful Manhattan attorney whose carefully constructed world begins to shatter after discovering mysterious Polaroid photographs of himself—images capturing moments he never lived, showing him in places he never visited. Most disturbing is the photo where his reflection in the window isn't his own but someone with colder eyes and a smile that seems to widen each time he examines it.
The brilliance of this psychological thriller lies in its exploration of how paranoia functions not through violence but through doubt. As Ashton's colleagues claim to have seen him in locations where he wasn't present, as phone calls from loved ones become distorted with unfamiliar voices, as photographs arrange themselves in patterns when he isn't looking, we witness the deliberate dismantling of a man's sense of reality. The predator doesn't need physical harm when psychological weapons prove far more devastating.
This episode challenges us to consider our own "Polaroids"—those uncomfortable truths we avoid confronting about ourselves. What aspects of your identity have you denied? What reflections have you refused to acknowledge? What version of yourself might be waiting in the glass, smiling back with patience as you unravel? Because ultimately, the most dangerous predator may not be the stranger watching from the shadows, but the evidence you've been ignoring about who you really are.
Listen now and discover that sometimes the most terrifying identity theft isn't when someone steals your information—it's when they steal your face.
"True mastery is found in the details. The way you handle the little things defines the way you handle everything."
Hello and welcome to the Gentleman's Journey podcast. My name is Anthony, your host, and today we are in episode three of the Patients of Predators. This episode is called the Polaroids, so let's go ahead and let's get into it. Cold open, the winter air carried a bite sharp enough to cut through Ashton's coat as he left the firm. February Manhattan was always cruel, but tonight the cold carried something heavier. His shoes splashed through dirty slush, piled at the curbs each step, leaving an imprint swallowed almost instantly by the city's endless churn. Three nights, that's how long it's been since the note. Three nights since I see you brother Appeared beneath his wiper like a curse. Three nights of restless pacing Of half-sleep, strangled by phantom phone calls Of colleagues insisting they'd seen him in places he hasn't been. Three nights of music following him, every lyric too sharp, too pointed, too deliberate, and now, with exhaustion gnawing at the edges of his mask. Even the familiar weight of the firm felt foreign. The marble lobby, the glass-walled, filled offices, the practiced congratulations of his peers, all of it seemed distant, as though he was playing a part in a theater he no longer believed in. The garage hummed with its usual fluorescent monotony when he descended into it. He descended into it. He had begun to dread this place that go of his own footsteps. The long rows of parked cars staring with blind chrome eyes, the hollow silence between concrete pillars. Each detail felt staged.
Speaker 1:Now waiting, the BMW gleaned where he had left it, polished as always. At first, relief pricked him no note on the windshield, the glass was clean. But relief only lasted seconds. When he opened the door and slid into the driver's seat, something shifted beneath him A faint crunch, his hand froze on the steering wheel. Slowly, deliberately, he reached down and pulled a small cardboard envelope from the seat back, plain brown, unmarked. His breath hitched. The envelope was light, but its weight filled the car. He sat there for a long moment. The engine was silent, the garage humming around him. His fingers trembled as he peeled back the flap.
Speaker 1:Inside lay a stack of Polaroids. He pulled the first three. It was him in bed, his own body tangled in sheets, mouth slightly open, head turned towards the window. The faint glow of the city pressed through the glass behind him, illuminating his face softened by sleep. But Aston hadn't slept peacefully in weeks. His stomach twisted.
Speaker 1:He flipped to the next. The second photo showed him outside the diner where he had wandered in on the sleepless nights. Hands in his pocket, shoulder hunched, eyes shallow. He hadn't noticed anyone nearby. No flash, no presence. Yet someone had been there, someone had been watching Another Himself on the courtyard. Steps, suit, immaculate, jaw tight, the time stamp and the corner marked noon the previous day. But at noon yesterday he had been locked in that position.
Speaker 1:He remembered the files, the objections, elliot's frown when his voice cracked and stepped outside once and yet here he was caught. His hands shook harder as he shuffled through the stack. One by one, they spilled into his lap Each one, his face from angles. He never lived Walking streets, he hasn't walked Standing in places. He hasn't been Wearing expressions he doesn't recognize.
Speaker 1:Until the last photograph slipped free. It landed face up on the passenger seat, aston in his leather chair, drink in hand, staring out the window at the skyline, the exact way he sat almost every night. But the reflection in the glass wasn't his. The jawline was sharper, the eyes colder, the posture less polished, more patient. Someone else Hashed her back at him From inside the window. He couldn't breathe. The photographs scattered across the seat as his grip faltered Faces of himself staring in every direction, the garage hummed louder, shadows stretched between the cars. From outside. Faint but deliberate music bled through A passing car, stereo distorted by distance Nirvana's lithium. I'm so happy because today I found my friends. They're in my head. The lair slashed through him. Jagged and mocking, he sucked the Polaroids back into the envelope with clumsy hands, heart hammering palms. Slick. He shoved it onto the passenger seat, then gripped the steering wheel with both hands as though it could anchor him. But nothing felt anchored now. The note had been enough to shake him. The Polaroids were something worse. Not just watching proof, someone was inside his life, part 1.
Speaker 1:The Box on the Counter, the envelope, rode home on the passenger seat and Ashton couldn't stop glancing at it. Each time he told himself to focus on the road, his eyes slid back anyway, dragged by gravity. The cardboard looked innocent enough, plain, unmarked, forgettable. But it radiated like a flare. He could feel it pulsing beside him, heavy with the weight of truce he didn't ask for, he thought of pulling over, tossing it in the trash can on the curb. He even pictured himself stopping at the East River, rolling down the window and letting the entire stack vanish beneath the black water. But the thought stopped him cold. But what if that was the point? What if they wanted him to throw it away. He gripped the wheel tighter, his knuckles pale. The DMW glided through traffic, its engine purring smooth. But tonight even that perfection sounded hollow.
Speaker 1:By the time he pulled into the garage, beneath his building, sweat had soaked the collar of his shirt, despite the cold. He scanned the rows of cars again, searching for movement, for shadows that didn't belong. Nothing, just steel and silence. He scooped up the envelope, clutching it like a weapon, and carried it to the elevator. The mirror wall surrounded him again, multiplying him to infinity. His reflection stared back at him from every angle, his face drawn and pale. One reflection lagged a beat. Too long he looked away, clutching the envelope tighter.
Speaker 1:Inside the apartment, he set the package on the kitchen counter. The marble surface gleamed under the light. The cardboard envelope looked wrong there, an intruder in a world created to perfection. His apartment had always been a stage set the polished glass, the oak floors, the immaculate order, every object in its place, every detail chosen to reinforce the mask of Aston Cross. But the box didn't belong. Its presence warped the room, bending the air around it.
Speaker 1:Just like the note had, he poured himself a scotch, though his hands shook badly enough that the amber sloshed over the rim. He didn't bother wiping it up. He carried the glass to the leather chair by the window and sat heavily, eyes dragged back again and again to the counter where the envelope waited, eyes dragged back again and again to the counter where the envelope waited. The city sprawled beyond the glass. Bridges glittered, neon blinked, the taxi headlights carved, streaks of light across the avenues. Normally he'd take comfort in that view. It'd always been his proof. The city at his feet, his kingdom earned. But tonight the glass didn't feel like proof, it felt like exposure. The Polaroids proved it. Someone had been inside his walls.
Speaker 1:He stood abruptly, unable to stand and sit still, and paced back to the corner. He pulled the envelope open again, hands trembling, and spread the photographs across the marble. They stared back at him like accusations, himself asleep, himself outside the diner, himself on the courthouse steps, himself in the chair, the skyline glowing behind him. But the reflection that wasn't his, each one colder than the last, each one proving that he was no longer alone inside himself. He picked up the photograph of the leather chair, the one that haunted him the most. Acid in the chair looked exactly as he did now drink in hand suit, rumpled, shoulders, tight. But the reflection in the glass. It wasn't his. The jawline was sharper, the eyes were colder and the faintest curve of a smile.
Speaker 1:Aston turned his head towards the actual window. His reflection glowed faintly in the glass, pale and exhausted, but undeniably his for now. He held a photograph against the glass, aligning it. The skyline matched, the angle matched, even the crease of his tie matched, but his eyes didn't. He dropped the photo, stumbling back One by one, he lifted the Polaroids and compared them to his own reflection. The diner, the courthouse, the bed. Each time the details aligned too perfectly. The background, the lighting, the posture, everything matched reality, everything, except the eyes. The eyes were always different. They were colder, they were hungrier, they were watching. He scattered, hungrier, they were watching.
Speaker 1:He scattered the photos across the floor. His breath dragged. His heart was hammering. His hand shook so violently he could barely keep a hold of the last one. He sank into the chair clutching the photograph of himself sleeping. He stared at it until his vision blurred. That was his room, his bed, his sheets. But the angle was wrong. The photo had been taken from above, from the corner of the room where no one should have been. A knock at the window made him jolt, not loud, soft, almost delicate, but unmistakable. His head snapped up. The skyline glittered beyond the glass. No one stood outside. He lived twenty floors up. His reflection stared back wide-eyed and jaw slack. For a moment it didn't move with him. Then it smiled. Aston's breath caught. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, looked again. It was normal, just him. But he couldn't shake the feeling that someone else was in the room, not outside, not in the street Inside, and that the Polaroids were only the beginning.
Speaker 1:Part 2. Faces in the Firm. The Polaroids followed him into the office, not physically, he left the envelope on the kitchen counter, sealed and silent, but the images clung to him Each time he blinked. He saw one, himself tangled in the sheets himself outside the diner, himself staring into a glass that reflected a stranger's face. He had stacked them neatly before leaving, placing a crystal paperweight on top, as if they could pin them down. But even here in Warren Keller's glass and marble kingdom, they whispered to him. They changed how people looked at him.
Speaker 1:Elliot. Warren stopped him in the hallway. First thing, you're late. Elliot said, not scolding, but pointed I uh, traffic. Aston lied quickly. His tie was perfect, his shoes gleamed, but he could feel the sweat beating at his hairline. Elliot studied him a little bit longer than usual. Get some rest, his, said his voice. Even You're sharper when you sleep. The words hit harder than they should have Sharper when you sleep. But the pull of him asleep had shown something else entirely Vulnerability Exposure. Who had taken it and how?
Speaker 1:In the conference room, during a strategy meeting, aston caught his reflection on the polished surface of the table. His face stared back, pale and drawn. The eyes were not quite his own. Janine tore his notice. Of course she did. She always noticed. She leaned forward, chen resting on her hand, eyes fixed on him. Hey, you all right? He forced a smile. Yeah, I'm fine, I'm just tired. Her lips twitched, not a smile, something sharper. You looked distracted yesterday too, and she paused, as though weighing whether to continue. I thought I saw you again on Broadway last night. His stomach clenched. I wasn't on Broadway. Her brow furrowed, but she didn't look away. Funny, he looked just like you.
Speaker 1:The silence stretched too long before the conversation moved on. By lunchtime the whispers had started. Two junior associates huddled in the corridor, their voices dropping as Aston passed. He caught fragments. I swear it was him. No, he was in a meeting. Okay then, how the arteries darted towards him, then away. He clenched his jaw, walking fast, but the words stuck like thorns.
Speaker 1:The afternoon brought depositions. Normally this was where Aston thrived sharp, commanding, unshakable. Today his focus slipped. He repeated questions. His objections came a second too late. The opposing council smirked, sensing weakness. When the session ended, elliot's hand landed heavy on his shoulder. You're not yourself, elliot, murmured. Aston forced a smile. It was just a bad night's sleep. Elliot's gaze lingered hard and searching Fix it. Then he walked away. By dusk.
Speaker 1:Aston sat in his office staring at the skyline. The city glittered through the window, fractured by the glass. His reflection hovered faintly in the plane. But he didn't trust it, not after the last Polaroid. He pulled the note from his pocket, still folded, still sharp. I see you, brother. He wanted to believe it was only the note, that the Polaroids hadn't followed him here, that the images were still sealed under the paperweight. But then Janine's voice echoed in his head. I thought I saw you again. And the whisper from the hallway. I swear it was him. They weren't just watching him, they were showing him to other people.
Speaker 1:He left the office later than usual. The hallways were empty, lights dimmed, the firm asleep. His shoes echoed too loud against the marble, each step rebounding like a second set of footsteps. Yet past the lobby, faint music drifted from somewhere unseen. A janitor's radio maybe, or maybe not. Pearl Jam's alive Is something wrong, she said. Of course there is. The lyric. Curled around him like smoke.
Speaker 1:He quickened his pace, pushing through the revolving doors into the night. On the street. The city swallowed him. Neon bled across wet pavement. Car horns blared, strangers brushed past their eyes, sharp lingering. He pulled his coat tighter, keeping his head down. But when he caught sight of his reflection in the storefront window, his chest seized For half a breath. The man in the glass wasn't him. The drawing was sharper, the eyes were colder. Watching he blinked, it was only him again. But he couldn't shake the certainty Someone else was wearing his face and the Polaroids proved it.
Speaker 1:Part 3. The Stranger on the Corner. The envelope stayed on the counter. Aston had sealed the Polaroids inside again, pressed beneath the weight of the cut crystal. But it didn't matter. The images lived in him. Now Each blink replayed them.
Speaker 1:Himself, asleep himself outside the diner, himself staring through a glass at a reflection that didn't belong to him. So he left the apartment, just to breathe, just to remind himself the city was bigger than his walls. That the photographs hadn't changed reality. They only stole the moments of it. But the city was bigger than his walls. That the photographs hadn't changed reality. They only stole the moments of it. But the city had changed. Or maybe it only revealed itself.
Speaker 1:Broadway was alive with neon. Its lights flickered across wet pavement, a mist of slush clung to the air. Dirty snow piled along curves where taxis hissed by. People moved with usual rhythm, couples laughing outside of bars, businessmen shouting into phones, street vendors slinging hot dogs. But Aston felt it differently now. Every laugh lingered too long, every glance stretched into something sharper, each reflection in a store window seemed to lag a beat behind him.
Speaker 1:And then he saw the man across the street, beneath the awning of shuttered bookstores. The figure stood too still, long coat, collar turned up, hands buried in pockets. The crowd moved around him. But he didn't move, didn't glance at traffic, didn't adjust his stance, didn't blink, just watched. Aston slowed, his chest tightened, the man's head tilted slightly, angled toward him. A taxi surge between them, horns blaring. When it passed, the man was gone.
Speaker 1:Aston froze on the curb, breath fogging the air. He scanned the awning empty. He turned, scanning the crowd, faces blurred past, ordinary and anonymous, but none of them looked like him. Still, he felt watched. He forced himself to walk faster. Shoes sharp against the pavement, coat pulled tighter. His hands shook but he kept them in his pockets, unwilling to show weakness. Music bled from a passing bar to Pesh modes and joy of the silence spilling into the night. Words like violence break the silence, come crashing in into my little world. The lyrics slashed through him. Cruel and deliberate, he pushed forward, heart hammering At forty seconds he stopped short. Another man stood beneath the lamplight coat, dark posture too. Still the face blurred by distance. The tilt of his head was the same.
Speaker 1:Watching Ashton's throat tightened, he turned quickly, cutting down a side street, moving faster now. The crowd thinned there. The neon dimmed, the air felt colder. Halfway down the block his reflection caught him in a pawn shop window. For a moment it looked wrong. The jawline sharper, his eyes colder, the same as the photograph. He stumbled back, breath caught in his throat. A passing cat blasted Sound gardens outshined. Chris Cornell's voice raw and guttered. I'm looking California and feeling Minnesota. That lyric bit into him. He turned from the window, walking faster, half running. Now his shoes splashed through slush, breath ragged. At the corner, he risked a glance back. The street was empty, but he could feel the weight of eyes on him.
Speaker 1:By the time he reached his building, his body shook. The doorman greeted him with a polite nod, but Aston barely returned it. The elevator mirrored him again, multiplying his face in rows of pale hollow men. For a moment one of them didn't lift his hand. When he smoothed his tie he looked away. His heart was hammering Inside the apartment. The Polaroids waited, silent and patient. He didn't open the envelope. He didn't need to. The stranger in the corner had already proven they were true.
Speaker 1:Part 4. The Call at Dusk. The envelope still sat on the counter. Aston had opened it since the night before, but he didn't need to. The Polaroids lived in him, now etched into his skull like scars. Each blink replayed them in sequence, himself asleep, himself outside the diner, himself staring at a glass that reflected a stranger's face. He thought leaving the apartment might shake them. But the city hadn't helped the stranger in the corner. The reflection in the pawn shop window, both have confirmed what he feared. Someone else was out there wearing him, watching him waiting.
Speaker 1:By the time he returned home, dust had soaked the city in a sick orange glow. Streetlights, flickered headlights, carved ribbons across the wet asphalt and the phone waited silent, too silent. He poured a scotch, hands trembling, and sat in a leather chair by the window. The skyline glittered, fractured by glass. But tonight he didn't trust it. Every light felt like an eye, every reflection felt like a mask. The phone stared at him from the counter. He stared back. It rang. It sounded hard for the apartment, like a knife.
Speaker 1:Aston lurched forward, spilling scotch across the carpet. He snatched the receiver. His throat was dry, his voice crackling Claire, claire, a paw static, thin Aston, her voice. His chest cracked open. Relief flooded through him, sharp enough to hurt. He pressed the receiver tighter, clear Jesus Christ.
Speaker 1:I've been trying for days. I needed, he caught himself. I needed you. He couldn't say it. Not. Yet Her voice came, fractured, broken by static. I needed you. You couldn't say it. Not yet her voice came, fractured, broken by static. I miss you. I wish I the award, I don't care about that, I just needed to hear you.
Speaker 1:You sound tired I haven't been sleeping. Why? Because the photographs of me existed that I never lived. You sound tired I haven't been sleeping. Why? Because the photographs of me existed that I never live. Because strangers wear my face Because reflections smile when I don't. He forced a laugh. Work, you know how it is.
Speaker 1:The line crackled, her words bent under the weight of static breaking into shards. I Proud Est, care. And then another voice bled in, deeper, male breathing slow, not hers, essence, spine locked. Claire, who was that? A line warped her voice and the other overlapped, tangled into a noise that wasn't speech anymore, more like two frequencies fighting for dominance.
Speaker 1:He clutched the receiver so tight it hurt. Who is this? Who is this? The voices collapsed into silence. Then the line clanked dead. He stood frozen, receiver still pressed into his ear. His heart hammered so loud it drowned out the silence. Finally he lowered the phone. His hand shook so badly he nearly dropped it. He dialed her number from memory. Each button pressed harder than the last, it didn't connect. The dial tone droned back, flat and merciless.
Speaker 1:He left the receiver off the hook, letting the hum fill the apartment. The sound steadied him. At least it was something. At least it wasn't silence. But the hum bent in his head, twisting Words threaded through it. The Pashmodes enjoyed the silence, grossly impatient. Words are very unnecessary. They can only do you harm. He pressed his palms against the counter, bowing his head. Who are you? No answer, just the hum, and beneath it, faint but certain slow breathing. He poured another drink, swallowed it too fast and stumbled back into the chair, his reflection, covered in the window, pale and hollow, drink in hand. For a long moment it moved with him. Then it tilted its head. He didn't. The glass slipped from his hand, shattered against the floor. When he looked back, the reflection was normal, but the crack in him was widening and he knew now Claire wasn't just distant, she was unreachable because of work. Someone else was on the line, someone who had always been on the line.
Speaker 1:Part 5. The Apartment of Doubles. The apartment was too quiet. It wasn't the ordinary silence of a late Manhattan night, just an orange muffled by glass, the low hum of radiators, the muted throb of life. Beneath him. The silence felt staged like a room after a rehearsal waiting for the actors to return, and he was only one on stage.
Speaker 1:The Polaroids lay scattered where he had left them hours before, still littered the marble counter and the floor around his chair. He hadn't touched them since the phone call, since Clara's fractured voice had twisted into something else. But more than presence had grown heavier Every time he walked past. His eyes caught the edges of glossy squares. He couldn't help himself from glancing down, and every time he was certain something had changed. Not much, but just enough the angle of his head, the set of his shoulders, the faint curve of his mouth, small differences, too small to prove, but enough to unmoor him.
Speaker 1:At first he thought it was exhaustion, his mind filling in shadows distorting details. He hadn't been awake too long, wound too tight, but that had to be it. But then he noticed the patterns. The photographs weren't scattered randomly. They had shifted, arranged themselves across the counter like pieces of a puzzle. He knew he hadn't left them that way. He remembered the mess, the clumsy drop of cards fanning across the marble. But now they lined up in two neat rows, pairs, doubles, himself sleeping in bed beside himself, sitting at the diner, Himself on the courthouse steps beside himself in the chair, himself staring into glass beside himself, walking through the firm's lobby. Each image mirrored the next, each pair, an echo. He stared at them until his eyes burned. It wasn't just voyeurism anymore. It wasn't someone capturing him at random. It was deliberate, arranged, like someone was showing him the truth in sequence. His chest tightened as he leaned over the counter, palms pressed against the hard marble. The photograph stared back at him like a set of instructions First exhaustion, himself asleep, then wandering himself at the diner, then the courthouse, public exposure, then the chair, isolation, steps, stages. He was following them without knowing. He looked down at himself, now in the chair, glass empty in his hand, staring out at the skyline. The pull of the chair confirmed it. The pull of the chair confirmed it. He was living inside someone else's order.
Speaker 1:A sound cracked the silence, soft and deliberate. A click, not from outside, but from inside. The sound of a shudder. Ashton's head snapped up, eyes scanning the apartment, nothing. Shadows stretched across the oak floor draped themselves against the furniture. The city lights painted faint patterns across glass, but no one was there. Another click. His throat closed.
Speaker 1:He spun towards the window, but it was only his reflection that waited Except it wasn't his. For a split second. The reflection's hilt tilted at a different angle than his own. His mouth curved into a smile. Before he could react, he staggered back, knocking photographs on the floor. When he looked again, the reflection was normal, but the photographs had arranged themselves once more. Now the doubles weren't neat rows, they formed a circle. Twelve photographs aligned edge to edge, creating a ring across the marble, at its center, empty space, waiting.
Speaker 1:Aston's breath stuttered. He stumbled closer, crouching low eyes wide. His shaking hands hovered above the circle but didn't touch. It wasn't random, was this a ritual? Someone had built a system out of his life. He was standing at the center.
Speaker 1:The silence pressed harder. Then the music rose, faint, muffled, impossible to place, not from the street, not from the neighbor's radio, from somewhere closer, somewhere wrong. The curious pictures of you, remembering you've fallen into my arms, crying for the death of your heart, the lyric, drifted through the room like a curse. Pictures of you, pictures of him, arranged into a system that promised something inevitable. He collapsed into the chair, his chest was heaving. He's staring at the circle. He didn't move the photographs, he didn't dare. He only whispered into the silence. What the fuck do you want from me? No answer, just the photographs, just the doubles, just the empty space in the middle, waiting for the next piece. And he knew when it came it would be him, not the man he thought he was the other one, the reflection that smiled, part 6.
Speaker 1:The Photograph that Smiles. The photograph slid to the floor like shards of a broken mirror. Aston sat in the chair, drink a bandage, chest heaving. As he stared at them, each image reflected a piece of him he couldn't control Sleep, exposed, duplicated, and each reflection in those images were always colder, sharper and hungrier than his own. But the one that haunted him the most lay face up by the window, the leather chair, the skyline glowing, the reflection smiling, he couldn't look away.
Speaker 1:Slowly, as if approaching a predator, aston bent down and picked it up. His fingers trembled, the glossy surface slick with sweat. He held it up to the light. The smile and the reflection curved wider. Aston froze, his breath caught in his throat. It had changed. He was certain of it. The last time he studied it. The smile had been faint, almost hidden. Now the lips stretched, broader, sharper, revealing the faintest glint of teeth.
Speaker 1:He blinked hard, rubbing his eyes, looked again, still smiling. Maybe he had missed it before, maybe exhaustion was twisting his memory. But deep down he knew the photograph had shifted. He dropped it. The photo landed on the marble wall With a slap Face up. The small hadn't softened, it had watched him.
Speaker 1:Now, one by one, picked others again, desperate for confirmation. The diner, the courthouse, the bed. Each one was the same as before Frozen, silent, proof, but not alive. The diner, the courthouse, the bed, each one was the same as before frozen, silent, proof, but not alive. Only the chair had changed. Only the reflection in the glass had teeth.
Speaker 1:He pressed the photograph flat against the window, aligning it with the skyline behind him. For a moment, everything matched perfectly the lights, the angles, the posture, except the smile. Everything matched perfectly the lights, the angles, the posture, except the smile. His own reflection stared back through the glass, pale and exhausted, jaw slack. The reflection of the photograph grinned wide, cruel and certain. It wasn't him, it had never been him.
Speaker 1:A soft sound broke the silence, not from outside, from inside. A click like the stutter of a camera. Aston spun, heart slamming against his ribs. The apartment was empty, silent. Another click, closer this time he staggered back, knocking photographs aside. With his shoes, his chest heaved every breath ragged. Who's there? Who's there? He demanded, his voice cracking. No answer, just the echo of his own voice against glass, the faintest whisper of music drifting through the walls. Too soft to be real, too sharp to ignore Massive attacks, unfinished symphony. Like a soul without a mind and a body without a heart. I'm missing every part. The lyrics sank into him like a prophecy.
Speaker 1:He stumbled back into the chair clutching the photograph. His reflection hovered in the window pale, hollow, broken. The reflection photograph smiled wider still. Aston's voice cracked in the silence what do you want from me? The reflection didn't answer, but the smile did. The phone rang. He dropped the photograph in shock. It landed face up on the floor, the reflection still grinning, teeth sharp in the glow of the skyline. The phone rang again, sharp and merciless, he didn't move, couldn't move. The Polaroids scattered at his feet, each one of them silent and frozen, except for the one that smiled. He closed his eyes, whispering this isn't real, this isn't real, this isn't real, this isn't real. But when he opened them, reflection in the window tilted its head and smiled back.
Speaker 1:Aston's monologue photographs don't move. That's what I keep telling myself over and over, like a prayer, like a commandment. They capture what was not, what is not, what will be, just a frozen sliver of the past, light and shadow pressed into paper, a reflection of truth, but not truth itself. But then why do I keep watching them breathe? I saw it, I know I did that smile stretched wider than before, teeth showing like it had been waiting for me to finally notice the reflection of the glass wasn't mine, it never was. And if the photographs don't move, then what does that make me? Because I swear. It's not the pictures that are shifting, it's me. Everywhere I turn, I'm being replaced. Janine swears. She saw me on broadway. The associates whisper by spotting me outside the building. Claire's voice on the phone overlaps with another, deeper, slower, breathing through the same line.
Speaker 1:Every reflection I see lags just for a second too long. They don't need to convince me anymore. The photographs did the work for them. A picture doesn't argue, a picture doesn't explain. A picture just shows you the world and it dares you to deny it. And when you're holding that picture in your hand, staring into eyes that are not yours but yours, colder than yours, hungrier than yours, it doesn't feel like proof of the past anymore. It feels like instructions, like someone has taught me. Someone has taught me how to disappear.
Speaker 1:I used to feel, or believe I should say, that I was untouchable, that the city was mine. The glass offices, the marble floors, the skyline glittering outside my window, all of it proved that I had conquered this place, bent it to my will. But now I see it for what it really is glass, transparent. Is Glass Transparent? Fragile, waiting to shatter? And when it does? Who's left Me? Or the one in the photographs? I don't know anymore. I can't sleep, I can't eat.
Speaker 1:Every time I close my eyes, I feel the shutter click. In the dark, I hear it faint but certain, like someone is in the room with me, waiting for me to surrender to exhaustion so they can take another shot, another piece of me, another angle. And the worst part, I think I want them to, because at least then I'd have proof, proof that this is happening, that I'm not losing my mind, that the predator is real. It's not just my reflection smiling back at me. But what if that's the trap? What if the moment I accept that the photographs are proof or as proof that I've become the thing they show me to be, I don't know how much longer I can hold on.
Speaker 1:Every drink I pour tastes like glass. Every face I see in the firm looks like a mask. Every time the phone rings, I wonder if it's her or if it's him. The winter breeze through my line, who smiles from behind the glass, who wears my face better than I ever did. Maybe that's what this is about. Maybe he's here not to replace me. Maybe he's here to show me who I really am. That's the part I can't stand, because when I took, I should say look at the photographs. I look at the smile. I don't just feel fear, I feel recognition and that terrifies me more than anything. Maybe they're not proof, maybe they're not warnings, maybe they're a mirror and maybe, just maybe, I've already started following them.
Speaker 1:All right, guys, let's get into my monologue here. Did you feel that shift, the moment when paper became prophecy? You know that moment when ashton realized the photographs weren't just evidence, they weren't just voyeurism, but they were something worse. They were something alive. So let's break this down.
Speaker 1:Think about how paranoia works. Right, it never starts with blood. It doesn't even need violence, at least not at first. It starts with doubt Known on a windshield, a whisper in a hallway, colleagues swearing they saw you in a place you know you weren't. Small fractures, hairline cracks in a glass of your reality, but see, cracks don't stay small. Now Aston isn't just looking over his shoulder in the street. He's holding proof in his hands, proof that someone had been inside his walls, inside his place, inside his life, closer than he can admit to anyone else. Proof that there is another version of him out there, moving in his world with the same face, but not the same eyes. And here's the truth. That's exactly what the predator wants, because once you see proof, you stop trusting yourself. And when you stop trusting yourself, you're easier to break.
Speaker 1:Let's look closer at the Polaroids. What they really mean, right? Why photographs? Why not letters or recordings or threats scribbled across his mirror? Because photographs don't argue. A photograph doesn't need to pursue. It shows you a version of reality and dares you to deny it. That's why this is so dangerous. Aston doesn't just fear the watcher anymore, he fears the evidence, the proof that maybe the watcher isn't outside at all, maybe it's inside.
Speaker 1:The smile and reflection is the tell. That smile isn't about cruelty, it's not even about mockery, it's about patience. It's the predator saying you don't need me to destroy you, you'll do it yourself and all I have to do is smile while you collapse. What about you? You may not have Polaroids scattered across your kitchen floor. You may not have reflections that grin without your permission. But don't lie to yourself as I hit the mic. Sorry, guys, don't lie to yourself.
Speaker 1:You felt it the moments where you realize someone seeing you in a way you don't recognize, the whispers that you've been living in fragments, the proof that there's a version of you out there you've avoided facing. Sometimes it's a memory, sometimes it's a choice you made years ago that still stalks you. Sometimes it's the voice you hear in that quiet that reminds you you're not who you pretend to be. That's your Polaroid. That's your reflection smiling back. And here's the question what do you do with that right? Do you shove it in an envelope and pretend it isn't there? Do you weigh it down with glass, like Aston did, trying to trap it in silence? Do you call it paranoia, exhaustion, stress, anything, but what it really is? Or do you face it Because here's the brutal truth?
Speaker 1:Your predator doesn't need to kill you. It only needs to show you what you've avoided long enough, you. It only needs to show you what you've avoided long enough. It only needs to lay evidence at your feet and let you argue with yourself until you're broken. Aston is already unraveling, not because the predator touched him, because the predator handed him a mirror. And if you're honest, painfully honest, you've been handed one too.
Speaker 1:So let me ask you directly what photographs exist in your life that you've been too afraid to look at? Not literal ones, but the moments that expose you, the truths that prove you're not flawless, not as untouchable, not as in control as you want everyone else to believe. What's in those pictures? Is it exhaustion you've dressed up as discipline? Is it weakness you've buried under stress? Or success? Is it betrayal you've hidden behind loyalty? And here's the worst part. Maybe those photographs aren't just proof of the past. Maybe they're instructions for the future. Maybe they're showing you the person you'll become if you don't face what's already inside of you. That's why Ashton's collapse matters. That's why you're here listening, because the predator isn't some faceless man on a corner. It's the evidence you've ignored, and the only thing more dangerous than being watched is realizing the watcher is wearing your face.
Speaker 1:So let's go ahead and let's get into the reflection questions. Number one what Polaroid from your past have you tried to bury but still haunts you in silence? Not literally, okay. Let's just make sure that's clear. How do you handle? Number two how do you handle proof when it isn't aligned with the story you've told yourself about who you are? That's a huge question for a lot of people. Number three have you ever seen a reflection of yourself in another person's words, in a moment of weakness and a private thought that didn't look like you but felt uncomfortably true. That's another big one, number four if those polar waves weren't just records but instructions, what path might they be warning you about? Number five what version of you is already smiling back from the glass and how long before he takes over or she takes over?
Speaker 1:So, guys, um, I usually don't share a lot of this kind of stuff, but I am today and I just wanted to, as always, just thank you so much, guys, for always listening. Today I lost someone very, very deep to me or very important to me. I lost my mom 15 years ago today as I'm recording this, 15 years ago today as I'm recording this, and a lot has changed in my life, obviously, since she's passed away, but I just wanted to give a shout out to my mom and that you're always in my heart and I'm just so thankful for you giving me life. And if you have a mom and dad, no matter the relationship that you have with them, be grateful and thankful, because there's people like myself that don't have a mom and soon probably won't have a dad. Be thankful and grateful for the people that you love. Just in general, if you haven't checked on the people that you love, it doesn't matter if you're a parent, let's say it's a family member or a friend Check on them, make sure they're okay.
Speaker 1:I'm going to tell you right now. Guys, time flies so fast and tomorrow is not promised. All you have is right now. So, out of respect to my mom, I'm not going to go over everything how to find me you guys know how to do that but I going to go over like everything how to find. You guys know how to do that. But I just wanted to give a big shout out to my mom. I love you and I miss you. Mom, and remember this, you create your reality. Bye.