609 is dressed like an art piece and a crime scene. The bed is wrapped in black canvas, three cinema cameras triangulate it, a fourth points at the door, and twelve empty frames wait on the wall with brass plates naming first names, dates, places: "ANNELEISE V. / APRIL 10. / MUSEUM, SOUTH STAIRS." A Pelican case labeled ARCHIVE rests under the bed. On the desk, thick cards announce a one-night rooftop exhibition: THE CURATOR PRESENTS: TWELVE WOMEN AN EXHIBIT OF ESCAPES AND ARRIVALS.
The architect is Maris, "the Curator," a woman who handles cameras and knives with the same easy precision. She wants Jack there as spine and witness. Some of the women knew they were filmed and signed later. Some appear in public spaces where the law calls cameras "mirrors." A few begged to be fully seen. It's part liberation, part exploitation, and Jack tells her he'll decide what she is when the projector is warm and the roof is full.
He spends the evening quietly wiring his own net: Ruth on the other end of a covert feed, the umbrella woman on a neighboring roof with a receiver, a stagehand helping him sneak a signal line along the parapet. By midnight, guests sit under the skyline as Maris screens short films of women choosing exits and arrivals in their own words.
The twelfth "piece" is live: a feed from 609, the black-wrapped bed and a white tape cross where a head would fall. The audience watches an "empty" room. Jack feels a heavy man take position in the stairwell behind him. On the screen, a tech's bare hand slips into the doorway, holding the door, letting hall light cut a bright line across the floor.
Maris doesn't speak. The roof holds its breath.
Off camera, a woman's voiceone that knows how to run rooms and machines bothsays, "Keep rolling."
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