In the style of Guy Bourdin. An empty vintage swimming pool lined with glossy crimson tiles at dusk. A red metal chair lies overturned on the wet poolside. A pair of white heeled sandals placed neatly at the pool's edge — as if their owner simply stepped out of existence. No figure visible. Only her shadow stretches across the still water, distorted, elongated, reaching toward something we cannot see. The sky bleeds deep magenta and vermillion into the reflection. High color saturation. Surreal tension. A narrative frozen mid-sentence. Something just happened. Or is about to.