For weeks, he wore the dead man’s identity like borrowed skin. He ate hot meals, slept on silk sheets, and found Paul’s old camera. Through the lens, the city looked different: less like a trap, more like a puzzle. He began photographing the forgotten — the drunks, the addicts, the women on the kerb. One of them, a young Romanian girl named Cristina, reminded him of his sister, lost to a street overdose years ago.
He knew they’d see his face — not Joey’s, not Paul’s — but the man beneath both: the one who finally chose to be seen. For weeks, he wore the dead man’s identity
Joey didn’t plan it. He just stripped, showered, and walked out as Paul. slept on silk sheets