Brett the Butler watched everything through the lens of his drone-cam — a device designed to look like a human eye, but capable of recording with Hollywood precision. In L.A., discretion was currency, and Brett had mastered it. He bleached his hair to a sugar-daddy grey, just enough to appear charming without being a threat. The disguise worked every time.
Behind the façade, Brett kept a paparazzi ledger that could ruin half the city. His side hustle — selling out semi-famous starlets and fading icons — was more profitable than service ever was. Soon he would need another name, another skin, another life. But for now, he poured the champagne, charged the drones, and captured every secret worth selling.
