2: The itinerary

Noah goes to the Istanbul art auction and meets Elias for the first time.

When you spend long enough alone in a room, eventually the room starts to press back. Just the weight of your own breathing, plus whatever ghost of last night’s sweat is still sticking to the sheets. I’m sprawled out, half-on the mattress and half-off, grinding my cheek against the cheap cotton, eyes fixed on the water stain up above, a familiar map of nowhere. Somewhere in the kitchen the fridge grumbles like it hates me.

My phone’s already in my hand, no surprise there. Thumb flicking up, up, up, all muscle memory. Mostly naked guys, brand sponsors, and a bunch of Lena’s latest shots, followed by the usual parade of people flexing abs that look like they were 3D printed. Every now and then, an ad for some crypto scam, or that one brand of protein bars that promise you’ll wake up ripped. They lie.

The apartment this morning: light barely getting in, smearing yellow lines across the table and the three self-portraits I hung up to look ambitious. Good joke, none of them sold, of course. The walls, chalk white, nothing else on them, not even that blue tack residue you get when you take old posters down. A pothos plant dangles from the shelf over the sink, leaves glossy and greedy for the faint daylight. It tries harder than I do most days.

Coffee’s already cold. I didn’t bother to drink it, just brewed out of habit, and there it sits, next to my laptop which is mostly used as a very expensive coaster now. The air in here is always a little stale, not bad, just empty. Not lonely, not exactly, just… neutral. Like the inside of a waiting room, or a hotel room, or a gallery after closing time.

Back to the scroll. Someone’s hawking custom teeth-whitening trays. Hard pass. Some influencer is in Dubai again, showing off poolside with a bunch of bodies that basically look Photoshopped.

I’m about to put the phone down when a glint of silver and gold catches me. Not an ad, not unless Instagram is scraping my dreams now. It’s a post from one of those exclusive art world accounts, the kind that usually just post rich people at launches with the hashtag #artlife.

This one’s different, though.

The headline:

ISTANBUL: SEEKING LIVING SCULPTURE FOR THE WINTER AUCTION

And under it, the money shot: a performer, or maybe a model, stripped down and covered head to toe in metallic body paint, not just standing but twisted, arms overhead, one leg bent so high it looks bio mechanical. The first pic is gold, the next all silver, then a third, darker chrome. Each photo, the person is holding a pose so intense I’m not sure if they’re still breathing. Faces blank, eyes soft, pure art object.

It says: “Seeking strong, disciplined performer for live centerpiece during Winter Auction, Istanbul. Must embody “fluidity and perfection of the human form.” Previous experience preferred. Endurance required. Payment guaranteed.”

Underneath, in smaller text: “Apply within. Stand out. Be art.”

The last line is some pseudo-philosopher nonsense but honestly, it works.

I click through the rest of the post, there’s a short video loop of one of the models, standing so still that the only hint he’s alive is the shimmer of sweat on his chest. The crowd at the event is all expensive perfumes, suits and dresses, eyes locked on the body in the middle of the room. That could be me. Fuck, it could.

I click the link.

The application page loads slow, not that I’m in a hurry, but it’s like the internet wants to give me time to reconsider my life choices. The form is in three languages, but thankfully English is the default. I can already feel my hands clammy against the glass of the phone. The pothos leaf above me just droops, like it knows this is a long shot.

First question: “Describe your performance/art modeling experience.”

I type in a list, start with Lena’s projects, list some gallery gigs, the two times I did video work for the university crowd, and a bunch of charity events people forgot to pay me for. I make it sound impressive, with strategically vague words like “avant-garde” and “immersive.” Nobody’s going to check, that’s the secret.

Second question: “What makes you unique for this role?”

I lean back, let the sunlight chew a path up my neck.

Okay, Noah. Sell it.

I type:

“My body is both canvas and brush; I can hold any pose you throw at me, and make it look effortless. I understand art is about tension, and I don’t break, even under pressure. If you want a living sculpture that can make everyone at the auction forget the actual art, I’m your man.”

I almost delete that last line, too much? But I leave it. Sometimes cocky is the only way to get noticed.

Third question: “Tell us about your discipline and creative philosophy.”

I stare at the screen for a solid minute, thumb hovering. The emptiness of the apartment starts to hum in my ears. I look up at the three self-portraits, me in profile, me half-shadowed, me with a wine glass right before it shattered. They look back, deadpan, like they know I’m full of shit.

Finally, I just start typing.

“Discipline is the difference between being looked at and being remembered. I can hold my body perfectly still for as long as anyone needs; pain or boredom is just background noise. In my work, I aim to erase myself and become the shape or feeling the artist wants. If the image demands it, I’ll break myself to fit.”

Jesus. That one’s a little dramatic, but maybe that’s what they want. I can feel the old tremor in my chest, that weird hope mixed with ‘there’s no way they’ll pick me, but what if they do?’

I attach three photos, a Lena shot ,bare, messy, eyes so blue it hurts. One of the self-portraits, leaning against a wall, muscles straining. And a moody close-up from a party last year where my jaw looks sharp enough to slice glass. All a bit over the top, but that’s the brief.

Scroll to the bottom. There’s a checkbox: “I consent to being contacted.”

Like I’d say no.

I hit send. There’s a microsecond where nothing happens, the light from the window swings across the screen, shows all the smudges on my phone, and the pothos just keeps on growing, pretending like I’m not about to throw my dignity at a bunch of strangers in Turkey.

Then the application is gone, swallowed by the void, and the page just says “Thank you for your submission. Shortlisted applicants will be contacted directly.”

That’s it. No confetti, no drumroll. The room snaps back into focus: a faint draft from the window, the scent of cold coffee drifting up, my own reflection a shadow in the black screen.

I get up, stretch, ignore the crackle of my spine.

For a moment, I let myself feel it, just a sliver, like maybe this time, it could really happen. Maybe someone ten hours away will look at my face, my body, and think: that’s it, that’s the one we want. Maybe Istanbul will mean something different than cold gallery wine and “exposure.”

But it’s just a maybe, and in this apartment, maybes don’t last long. The walls are still bare, the air still empty, and I’m still me, waiting for the next buzz on my phone, hoping it’s not just another bill.

Next morning, apartment looks like a set from one of those bleak German crime shows: empty, a little grim, and smelling faintly of last night’s sweat and black coffee burnt to tar. There’s still no word from Istanbul, obviously, but I’m already moving everything out of the way, a one-man moving company with a bonus round of self-loathing. Coffee table goes first, screeching across the floor and nearly clipping my shin. I stack the two folding chairs in the corner, hurl a pile of dirty t-shirts into the bathroom, and clear about two square meters of clean floor space. For Berlin, that’s practically a ballroom.

My audience: one pothos plant, arms outstretched, hungry for light. I swear it looks happier with the sun actually hitting it for once.

Ring light comes next. Bought it last month, money I do not have, thinking it’d change my life, or at least make my pores look less like moon craters on Zoom calls. It’s bigger than it looks on Amazon, and putting it together requires all the patience I do not possess. I drag the box into the middle of the room, curse at the mount until it clicks, and then slap the mirror down on the kitchen chair, angling it so I can see the full version of myself without anything in the way.

Clothes off. No distractions. The way my body looks in the apartment light, scars, freckles, the little dip between my collarbones, feels more like home than the walls do. I watch myself stretching, joints popping, muscles drawing up and releasing, and tell myself this is what real work looks like. The Instagram kids don’t show you the part where your hamstrings feel like they’re about to snap.

First position: arms up, one elbow crooked, the other straight, back arched and one leg bent behind. Try to hold for a count of ten, chest burning by seven. I see the sweat bead on my brow, feel my hands starting to tingle. Is this what the models in the Istanbul post put themselves through?

I don’t drop the pose, not immediately, even when my left calf starts to twitch. I grit my teeth and stare myself down.

Second pose: classic statue, one knee up on a stack of books, no art stands here, fists clenched at my waist. It looks silly until I push my abs out, lean into the tension, make every line stand out. This one I hold for twenty seconds, maybe more, face going slack, no expression, just object.

I walk over to the laptop between sets, letting the blood rush back into my limbs. I queue up YouTube vids of performance artists: some French guy with his spine twisted so hard it looks like an exorcism, an American girl who can keep her fingers in impossible curls for hours. I watch how they breathe, how they go still, how even blank faces tell a story. I copy the moves, then mess with them: add a twist, change the angle, hold the tension in odd spots, hip cocked just too far, fingers pointed, chin down like I’m hiding a secret.

There’s nobody here to tell me what sells, but I figure if I impress the pothos, maybe that’s worth something.

Midday: my arms feel like they belong to someone else. Good. That means it’s working.

By day three I’ve invented a whole routine, as if I’m auditioning for a Berlin reboot of The Terminator but with more nudity and less plot. Wake up, stretch, coffee, line up the mirror, strip down, set the ring light to “blinding.” Then it’s pose after pose, slow and deliberate, holding each until my muscles shake or the sweat crawls down my chest enough to make me blink.

There’s a point where the pain stops being interesting and just becomes background noise. I ride it out, not thinking about the fact that this might all be for nothing, not thinking about the credit card bill, not thinking about the fridge which is now basically a climate-controlled graveyard for mineral water and expired yogurt. Just me and the plant, doing battle with my own body.

Sometimes I try the poses from the Istanbul promo post, one leg at ninety degrees, arms swept like I’m about to fly, body twisted into these weird, gorgeous angles that make my ribs stand out like armor. Sometimes I go blank, just stand there, letting the energy drain out of me, face empty, like I’ve already lost and don’t care if anyone’s watching.

Most days, there’s a moment it almost feels… real. Like if a camera snapped right then, it’d be good enough to hang in some gallery, not just stuck on my phone where nobody likes it except horny bots and my mom.

By the end of each session, I collapse on the floor, sweat cooling on my back, limbs buzzing. From the corner, pothos plant’s got a new leaf unfolding, like it’s trying to show me up.

I laugh, cough, flip it off. “Show-off,” I mutter.

Nights are just water and sore muscles and sometimes scrolling through muscle anatomy charts, convincing myself I can hold the pose longer tomorrow. Sometimes I close the blackout blinds and run through the whole thing in the dark, so when I go to Istanbul, if I go, I can do it under any light, any eyes.

Day five, my legs don’t even want to cooperate anymore. I dig my toes into the cool floor, set my jaw, hit the most brutal positions I’ve come up with yet, shoulders twisted, hands behind my head, calf muscle flexed so tight it feels like it’ll snap. I keep the pose going, counting the seconds, not letting my eyes blink, face soft as clay.

I don’t know if I’m getting better, or just getting used to the pain. But I want this, more than I want to sleep, more than food, more than validation from people who never even look past the swipe. The auction gig could change everything, even if it’s just for one weekend, even if I come back to Berlin and still have to dodge debt collectors and eat day-old bread.

Last run of the night, I drop the mirror onto the floor so I can look at myself from a perspective nobody else gets. I hold the pose for a whole minute, sweat dripping, fingers numb, and imagine the whole world is watching, even though it’s just a plant.

When I finally let go, I’m shaking, legs giving out, head throbbing with the rush. I lie there, arms sprawled, chest heaving, and tell myself it’s all for something. This time, maybe, it will matter.

The pothos sheds a single leaf, like an applause or a warning. I pick it up, twirl it in my fingers, and let myself believe it’s applause.

Almost poetic, if you ignore the fact that my only audience is a plant and my own reflection, but I’ll take what I can get. Resting flat on the linoleum, sweat drying in sticky rivers down my back, legs still in that pleasant post-pose tremor, I just stare up at the water stain again, and yeah, for a second I can see it, me in gold paint, all marble muscle and cool detachment, standing in a room full of people who actually matter.

Then my phone vibrates.

It’s not the regular buzz either, not a notification from Insta or another begging, automated email from my bank, but the special double-buzz I set for “Important.” Don’t ask me why I bother, since most days nothing important ever happens, but old habits, right?

I roll over, reaching for the phone like it’s a fucking lifeline. There’s a split-second where my thumb doesn’t want to work, nerves still fried, but then I unlock it, and there it is:

SUBJECT: INTERVIEW INVITATION – ISTANBUL ART AUCTION

The sender is just “admin@provanance-something” but the body of the email opens with my name in all caps, which is honestly a power move, not even my agent does that. I prop myself up on my elbows, breath caught somewhere behind my ribs, and read:

“Dear Noah Lucien Heart, Thank you for your application. We are impressed with your portfolio and artist statement. You are shortlisted for the Istanbul Winter Auction performance and we would like to invite you to a video interview TOMORROW at 9:00 AM Berlin time. Please confirm your availability by replying directly to this email. The interview will be conducted via secure video link, details provided upon confirmation. We look forward to meeting you.

Best regards, Selection Panel, Crescent & Ledger Auction House”

I read it once, twice, three times. For a half second I think it’s a prank, but nobody I know is this organized, and they attached a signature block with a name I can’t even pronounce, so it’s got to be legit. My chest goes all tight, not like anxiety, but maybe just the blood sugar dropping from too many hours spent flexing for nobody.

I want to scream. Or maybe just text the first three people in my contacts list and tell them I made it past round one, suck it, all the teachers who said I’d never amount to anything.

Instead I just lie there, phone clutched in my hand, grinning at the ceiling like a lunatic.

The pothos doesn’t care, obviously, but I angle the phone so the shiny green leaves get a good look at my name in the email. “Told you,” I say, like the plant is my hype man. “Fucking told you.”

I snap back to attention, thumbs flying, type out a reply so fast there’s at least three typos, which I don’t even bother to correct:

“Yes, I confimr, tomorrow 9:00AM is perfect for interwiev. Thank you for consideration, loking forward to meeting you all.”

Send. It’s gone. That’s it.

I’m in the next round.

The buzz in my chest is better than any caffeine, better than the high from being stared at in a club, even better than Lena’s ‘fuck this is good’ when the shots are really rolling. My face is still hot, skin buzzing, and I feel like if I don’t move, I’ll just explode.

I jump up, instantly regret it because my left hamstring seizes like a brick, but who cares, I limp it off and start pacing the apartment, barefoot on the cold floor. It grounds me, a little. The air in here is stale but electric, like the world is watching through a secret hole in the wall.

I should probably set up for the interview. Shower, for one. Maybe think about the fact I haven’t washed my hair in two days, which might be a new record, even for me. But first, I shoot off a text to Sophie.

My agent is the only person who might actually give a shit, and also, if I don’t tell her, she’ll have a full meltdown when the contract comes through with my name on it and not hers.

“Hey. Got an interview for that Istanbul performance auction thing. Tomorrow morning 9am my time. If I get it, can you make sure they don’t try to pay me in ‘exposure’? xx N”

Send. She replies in under a minute:

“YES. This is huge. Call me after, I’ll negotiate the shit out of it. Proud of you xoxo – S”

That’s Sophie for you. She probably hasn’t even put her kid to bed yet and she’s already firing off emails to lawyers in three countries. I feel a little guilty for not being more excited out loud, but whatever, she’s getting her cut.

Back to the shower. Strip off the sweat-soaked briefs, catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, all flushed and wild-eyed, like I’ve just been fucked by destiny, which is corny as hell, but actually, yeah, that’s how it feels. I run the water hot as I can stand, steam filling up the tiny bathroom, plastering my hair to my forehead, rinsing away all the effort and the grind. The smell is a mixture of soap, mildew, and something faintly metallic, probably the pipes or maybe just the city bleeding through the water supply.

Scrub every inch, especially the places that’ll show on camera. I even shave, which I despise, but there’s always some judge who thinks a clean jawline is the difference between “avant-garde” and “unprofessional.” I towel off, the fabric rough against my skin, and go back to the mirror for damage control: little bit of moisturizer, fix the wild crest of my hair, run fingers over the arch of my brow, and try to look like someone who belongs in a room full of rich people and not, you know, this apartment.

I do a test run with my phone’s camera, propped on the kitchen chair, background as neutral as I can get it. The three self-portraits are in frame, which is hilarious, but also probably the most high art thing in here, so I leave them. I practice my interview face: just enough smile to look human, not so much that I accidentally come off like a puppy. Chin up, eyes soft, jawline flexed to the point of dangerous.

I even try out my “stare past the camera and look thoughtful” pose, but it just makes me look like I’m waiting for a bus that’s never coming. Whatever. Maybe they’ll like the desperation.

The table is sticky under my palms, because apparently I never wiped it after the last failed attempt at lunch. I ignore the mess. The room hums, a little, with the weight of tomorrow.

For dinner I eat a banana and a fistful of peanuts, which is the only food in the apartment that won’t make me bloat like a dead fish. I skip the wine, even though everything in my body wants it. I want to be sharp tomorrow, or at least not look like I spent the whole night clubbing.

I lay out clothes for the interview the way normal people do for actual jobs, which is a joke because I know they want bare skin, but just in case, I pick out jeans that make my thighs look like sculpture and a button-up so crisp it still has the shop fold lines. I try it on once, check the fit, then ditch the shirt because the way the fabric gapes at my chest looks thirsty as hell. Perfect.

I can’t sleep. Not even a little. I roll around in bed, sheets twisted up under my knees, head full of gold paint and video screens and my own voice narrating answers to invisible judges. Every time I close my eyes, I imagine myself in that room, Istanbul, even though I have zero clue what it’s like there, except for the vibe of rich, dangerous, and maybe a little bit unhinged.

I watch three episodes of some trash TV show on my laptop, volume just loud enough to drown out the fridge. At two a.m. I text Markus for no reason:

“Interviewed tomorrow for the Istanbul art thing. If I become famous, you can say you knew me when I was still a slut.”

He doesn’t reply. Probably asleep, or maybe he’s out, living his best life. I try to be annoyed but it doesn’t stick. Too wired for anything but hope and a little bit of fear.

Eventually, I drift off. Dreamless, I think, or maybe the dreams are just more of me, posing.

My phone alarm goes off at 7:00, because I’m a masochist and need to suffer a little before I’m on camera. I drag myself up, shower again, because why not, then brush my teeth for so long my gums go pink under the foam. Strip down and assess the damage: no new zits, hair holding on for dear life, eyes so blue they look almost fake in the pale morning light.

I make coffee, this time actually drinking it, savoring the bitter heat as it turns my stomach into a furnace. I don’t bother with breakfast. Instead I clean the table, set up the ring light, which is already threatening to break, and arrange the apartment so it looks less like a crime scene and more like a “creative workspace.” Three self-portraits, pothos plant angled in the shot, me in the chair, feet flat on the floor, hands loose in my lap.

I click the video link five minutes early, because I’m not a total idiot, and wait.

Screen goes black, then fills with a logo, all gold and black, weirdly elegant. Then three video feeds pop up: one, a woman with white hair slicked back and dark eyes, she looks like she eats diamonds for breakfast. The second, a kid barely older than me, in a turtleneck so black it eats the light, face sharp and unreadable. Third, a shadowy profile, jawline like a blade, barely moving.

They don’t say hello, not right away. Just stare.

I stare back.

Finally, White Hair leans in, voice precise: “Noah Lucien Heart, thank you for joining us. We would like to see your discipline and presence. Are you ready?”

Not even a good morning. I fucking love art people.

I nod. “Ready.”

Turtleneck: “We’d like you to begin by holding the pose you sent in your application. The Lena one. Bare arms, back arched.”

I strip off the shirt in one move, like a magic trick, toss it out of frame. Hit the pose, arms up, one elbow cocked, abs on full display. I hold, count the seconds, focus on the way my skin prickles under the heat of the ring light. The silence is thick, except for the faint hum of my own laptop fan.

White Hair speaks: “Do not relax. Hold it while you answer.”

Turtleneck: “Describe what becomes difficult, and why you continue.”

I can feel the sweat slick already growing behind my knees, but I keep everything smooth, voice even.

“It’s the burn, mostly. Shoulders first, then lower back. After thirty seconds, your arms get pins and needles, then it’s just grit. But I keep going because that’s the point, the longer you hold, the more you become something else. The work is in the discomfort. The moment before giving in is what makes it art.”

Shadow-Jaw says nothing, just watches. I think I see a flicker in the eyes, maybe approval, maybe just boredom. Who cares.

White Hair: “Now, a classical sculpture pose. Your choice.”

I put my knee up on the chair, clench fist at my waist, twist my torso so every line pops. I imagine I’m some ancient Greek offering up my abs to the gods. I hold for a full minute, because fuck it, I want them to remember me.

Turtleneck: “And your philosophy?”

I keep my face blank, just a flicker of a smile. “Discipline is the difference between being watched and being remembered. I’m not here to be myself, I’m here to erase everything except what you want to see. If the image demands it, I’ll break myself to fit.”

White Hair writes notes. Shadow-Jaw leans closer, like they’re trying to see if I’ll crack.

I don’t.

They run me through two more poses, one twisted, one with hands behind my head, then ask me to hold the last one for as long as I’m able. It’s a brutal one, arms laced behind my head and legs spread wide, core twisted and every muscle screaming, but I dig in, refuse to blink, not going to give them the satisfaction of seeing me break.

My jaw clenched so tight it’s probably showing on camera, sweat already pooling under my shoulder blades and sliding slow down my spine, but fuck it, I could hold this for hours if they want, the only thing shaking is the ring light buzzing in my ear. I stare ahead, eyes flat, a little daring.

“Impressive control,” says Shadow-Cheekbones, their voice smooth, low, and so quietly possessive it sends a spark down my spine. Maybe bored, maybe just testing me.

They ask more, but not much. “What does discipline mean to you?” White Hair, crisp, unfazed.

I answer, breath coming harder now. “Discipline’s the refusal to look away when it gets uncomfortable. It’s the art of holding a moment, no matter how much it sucks. It’s giving up comfort in favor of focus. I can outlast anyone, if it matters.”

Silence.

Turtleneck scribbles something, then leans back. “Noted. Now, hold a pose of your choosing. Show us something we haven’t seen.”

I go for a backbend, hands locked behind my head, chest out, stomach trembling with the effort, every line stretched to breaking. Face soft, eyes open, not blinking. Time crawls. By twenty seconds in, sweat’s running down my jaw, pulse hammering in my ears.

They make me hold it for ages. Not even a whisper of encouragement. Just three sets of eyes, one bright, one black, one shadow, watching, judging, taking notes. My hands go clammy, my feet almost slip, but I dig in, keep it going.

When they finally cut me loose, it’s abrupt. White Hair says, “Thank you for your time, Noah. We’ll be in touch.”

Before I even catch my breath, the call blips out. For a solid thirty seconds, I just sit there, heart pounding, legs shaking. Then I collapse backwards, flopping onto the couch, letting the exhaustion ooze out of me.

Plant’s still watching from the shelf. “Chill out, I did my best,” I tell it. It doesn’t answer.

Nothing to do but wait.

And hope the sweat stains don’t show on the application.

The week after the interview is pure torture, no two ways about it. I wake up early and check my e-mail before I even take a piss. Zero new messages, except for Lena sending a meme and four different payment reminders from apps I don’t remember signing up for. Even my phone has figured out I’m desperate; it starts pushing “inspirational quotes” to my lock screen. I don’t need inspiration, I need a goddamn job.

I try to keep busy, which means wandering the city for hours, hands jammed deep in my pockets, retracing old routes: past the Turkish bakery that always smells like caramel and smog, over to the canal where tourists take photos of street art, sometimes just circles around my own block. Berlin’s loud and hazy this time of year, everybody hustling or just pretending. I like blending in, the way you can vanish in the crowd.

But really, every step is just killing time while I check my e-mail again, again, again. If they’re going to ghost me, they should at least do it sexy.

Morning of the big moment, I’m at my usual bakery, ordering coffee and a pastry I can’t pronounce. The place is packed, old men haggling over day old bread, a table of students pretending not to be hungover, and a barista who actually remembers my name, which should probably worry me.

I squeeze into a spot by the window, dunk a pastry in the coffee, and do my ‘try not to look obsessed’ routine. Of course, the second I glance at the screen, there it is:

SUBJECT: Winter Auction – Official Selection

The world goes flat for a second, like the air’s been knocked out of it. I’m so stunned I almost drop my cup, and a little coffee slops onto the counter. Nobody notices, or maybe they’re just too Berlin to care.

I swipe the notification, not trusting my eyes. The e-mail’s legit, no spelling fuckups, no weird footer, just a very clean, very official note: “Congratulations. You have been selected as the featured Living Sculpture for the upcoming Winter Auction in Istanbul. Please confirm your acceptance. Further details to follow.”

I want to scream, but instead I down the rest of my coffee in three gulps, burn my tongue, and all but lurch outside. The city’s gone from grey to technicolor in about four seconds. Everything’s too loud. I pace the sidewalk, dialing Sophie without thinking.

She picks up on the second ring. “Noah, darling, to what do I owe this early pleasure?”

I can barely get the words out. “They want me, Soph. Istanbul. The Winter Auction. I got the gig.”

There’s a half-beat where she lets it sink in, and then her tone kicks up from ‘friendly’ to ‘legal assassin’ in one breath. “You’re joking.”

“Not joking. It’s real. I’m in.”

The air feels sharper, like there’s more oxygen in it than usual. I do a weird little jog in place, barely avoiding a collision with some guy hauling crates of bread.

Sophie’s already in planning mode. “All right, listen. Don’t reply to anything, you’ll forward the whole e-mail to me. I’ll negotiate all the terms, get you travel, setup, per diems, the works. You do not go anywhere until I say. Understood?”

I let out a laugh, all nerves. “You got it, boss.”

Pedestrians are streaming past, most too busy to notice me pacing like a madman. There’s an old woman with a shopping trolley, a kid on a BMX, a guy in a suit who looks like he’s about to lose a race with his own briefcase. But it’s all just background noise, because I can’t think about anything except the burning, jittery buzz in my chest.

Sophie drops her voice, softer, now, but with an edge. “You did it, Noah. This is big. The Winter Auction is the kind of stage people spend whole careers begging for. With your face, your body… you’ll own it.”

My palms are still slick with sweat. I wedge the phone between shoulder and cheek, try to get my breathing somewhere below cardiac-arrest levels. “What if I fuck it up?”

She snorts, classic Sophie. “You won’t. You prepared like a psycho. You’re going to kill it. All you have to do is show up and don’t get murdered by Turkish food, all right?”

I lean against the glass storefront, scanning my reflection, which looks weirdly electric under the Berlin morning haze. “Yeah. All right. I’m just, it’s a lot.”

Sophie’s softer now: “Let it be a lot. You earned it. I’ll text you when I’ve got details. Celebrate a little, okay?”

She hangs up before I can answer, already juggling five phone calls and probably negotiating my soul.

I just stand there, letting it crash over me. Istanbul. The Winter Auction. A chance to be seen, really seen, instead of just another set of abs for rent. For a minute, I don’t care if I fall on my face. I just want to see what happens next.

Back inside, the barista gives me a thumbs up. Maybe he overheard, maybe he’s just being nice. Doesn’t matter.

The city keeps rushing past, unstoppable, but I walk slow, soaking it up. For once, I want to remember how it feels.

Packing isn’t just about shoving things in a bag, it’s about pretending you’re the version of yourself you wish the world would believe. I stare down the open suitcase on my bed, then start the cull: nothing ugly, nothing desperate, nothing that says “Berlin thrift store clearance.” Even if most of it is. The trick is in the edit.

Black turtleneck is first. I hold it up, stretch the neck, run my thumb along the seam. Classic, dramatic, doesn’t show pit stains. Pile it in. Next up, tailored pants, slim, dark, with a crease so sharp it looks almost mean. They’re tight in the ass, but that’s the point. I fold them careful, tuck them next to the turtleneck like they’re both expensive enough to sue me.

Shirts next, one bone-white, fabric so soft it slides off the hanger. I try it on with the pants, check myself in the mirror: collarbones, jawline, blue eyes cutting. There’s a moment where I almost look rich. Almost.

Swap it for the black shirt, a little looser, sleeves rolled up. That’s more like it, artist at a private viewing, already a little bored by the crowd.

Accessories: a silver ring, fake, but you’d never know, a woven leather bracelet for the ‘I’m earthy as well as elegant’ vibe, and a pair of sunglasses that scream “don’t even try.” I line them up military-style.

Triple-check the shoes, one pair of boots, one pair of white sneakers, both cleaned to within an inch of their life. Some people say shoes don’t matter, but those people never worked an art auction.

I’m sweating by the third outfit change, even though no one’s watching. I go through the full theater: sit, stand, lean against the wall, test if the pants ride up or look tragic when I strike a pose. I adjust my hair twice, try a few different ways of tucking the shirt, eventually land on leaving it half-untucked and calling it “intentional.”

The plant gets a front row seat. I nod at it, like it’s the judge.

I don’t bother to pack any of the ratty tank tops or jeans with more holes than hope. If Istanbul wants me, they want the performance. I can starve for style.

On the dresser, my phone buzzes, nothing urgent, just Sophie sending updates about the flights, hotel “situation,” and probably a thousand more details I won’t process until I land. For now, it’s just me, suitcase, the stacks of folded black and white, and the weird charge of actually having somewhere to go.

I look up, catch the three self-portraits staring me down from the wall. For a second it’s like they’re all different people: one shy, one cocky, one looking past the camera like he knows something’s about to change. I feel a chill in my arms but I don’t flinch.

As dusk settles, the city outside goes soft and blue, lamps blinking on across the street. Shadows pool in the corners of the apartment, blurring the smudges on the walls and the edges of the furniture I shoved around last week. I zip the suitcase, click it shut with a sound that echoes.

Finally, I stand at the window, hands wrapped around a glass of water, watching Berlin glow to life below. My reflection catches, just faint, superimposed on the skyline. For once, the emptiness doesn’t feel hungry, it feels like possibility thickening in the air. Like maybe the next city will see me better than this one ever tried.

I hold the moment, even after the lights come on.

And let myself believe.