Whoosh! A gust of wind whipped through, flipping the lighting board in Wyatt's hands right up into his face. Thankfully, it wasn't a hard board, but the clumsy scene was still enough to make anyone stifle a laugh. As the wind died down, the board slowly drifted back to the ground, leaving Wyatt's hair a chaotic mess.
He didn't even need to look up to feel the band members' eyes on him. "Relax, I know how ridiculous I look right now. You don't need to point it out." He paused for a second before adding, "And no, I'm not a con artist. I swear I'm legit."
This was not part of the plan!
Everything happening today was completely off Wyatt's original schedule. Interviewing the band? Unplanned. A thirty-minute chat stretching into an hour? Unplanned. The casual interview somehow turning into a full-blown feature article? Total curveball.
If it were just a simple write-up, a text interview would've been enough. He could've grabbed some official promo shots from the band or even used stock press photos from Bruno's concert—no big deal. But a feature article? That meant photos from the interview itself were a must, something vivid and specific to give readers a real sense of the moment.
Normally, a feature like this would follow a proper process. At minimum, you'd have a journalist, a photographer, and an assistant. Depending on the article's angle, the setup could shift—maybe it ties into a holiday like Christmas or Valentine's Day, or maybe it's a collab with a clothing brand or a sponsor. Different goals, different crew. Even the simplest feature still demands a pro team: hairstylists, makeup artists, stylists—the works. Sometimes, a magazine might even shell out cash to bring in top-tier talent for the gig.
But right now? Everything was off the rails. Forget the band members—Wyatt himself was feeling the absurdity firsthand. No hairstylist, no makeup, not even a photography assistant. Just him, a lone soldier scrambling around. It was a disaster.
Still, he had to figure out a way to make it work.
Truth is, a feature article needs an editor's green light. Whether it's a magazine or a newspaper, page space is limited. Deciding what goes where, how much room each piece gets—it's a science. Especially for a feature spanning three to twelve pages, it's a centerpiece of the issue. From planning to prep to execution, it's a massive undertaking.
Wyatt didn't even know where this piece would land. How many pages would the One Day Kings get? Or would it just get dumped online? All the material he was busting his butt to gather—how much would actually see the light of day, and how much would stay buried? Total mystery.
Even so, Wyatt trusted his gut. He'd collect as much as he could and write something he was proud of. Even if it ended up on the website, he wanted to capture today—everything he'd seen and heard—and share it with as many people as possible.
So, solo or not, he'd push through. Or maybe… he could use a little help.
"Hey, can someone come over and hold the light for me?" Wyatt called out to the band.
"Uh…" Ronan hesitated, catching a glance from Cliff, who looked like he wanted to say something but held back. In the end, Cliff jogged over to help Wyatt out. But Ronan's mind went to the same place Cliff's had: Alice.
Maybe Alice could pitch in. This was kind of her thing, wasn't it?
Ten minutes later…
Alice couldn't help but grin at the sight: Ronan with a stiff smile and no clue what to do with his hands, the rest of the band standing around looking so nervous they could barely crack a smile. She turned to Wyatt, who was scratching his head, and politely chimed in, "Mind if I offer a suggestion?"
"Of course! Yes, please," Wyatt nodded eagerly.
Wyatt was a writer first—photography, video, editing, he could handle it all, but it wasn't his strength. His real talent was words. And now, faced with the One Day Kings, a band of total newbies, his lack of knack for directing or managing a shoot was painfully obvious.
Photography's a performance in its own way. In front of the lens, you've got to show something—a vibe, a spark—that's different from acting on screen. It's about projecting a natural energy from within, something the photographer has to catch on the fly.
Top-tier photo shoots? They're not easy. It's all about the chemistry between the photographer and the subject clicking just right.
Out of the band's four members, Maxim was the only one who seemed comfortable. He could strike poses naturally, no awkwardness, but even his moves were a bit repetitive. You could tell he was stuck in his usual photo habits—nothing that shifted with the lens, style, or setting. Experience was still missing.
The other three? A total trainwreck.
The rookie vibes were overwhelming, hitting you square in the face. The shots were, well, let's just say "hard to describe politely." Wyatt had no idea how to guide them, but Alice? After months of hanging around, her camera had gotten to know the band. She'd picked up a few tricks along the way.
Still, she wasn't sure about stepping on a pro's toes, so she checked with Wyatt first before jumping in.
"Ronan, look at the camera."
Up until now, when Alice filmed, she'd encouraged the band to ignore the lens, to be their most natural, real selves. But today, with a still camera, they were boxed into a small space, forced to pose and freeze for the shot. It tied their hands—and feet. No matter what they tried, they looked stiff.
So Alice flipped the script. She wanted them to lean into the tension, let the lens catch those fleeting quirks that made them them.
"You sure about this?" Ronan asked, feeling like his limbs had forgotten how to function. Now he had to stare into the camera?
"Yep, I'm sure," Alice said, stepping up beside Wyatt and guiding Ronan's gaze into the lens's focus. "Look right at it. Imagine you're talking to it, like it's the audience you're singing to. The lens is your crowd."
Special situations call for special fixes. Maybe this was the way to crack Ronan's shell.
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