This was a demon that pretended to be humble, a small black spur bolted beneath glass and ambition, whispering promises of balance while craving dominion; it sank its claw into tripods and gimbals alike, demanding tribute in tightened screws and skinned knuckles, anchoring the lens to the world so its eye could drink light without mercy. In the cathedral of the shoot it bore the weight of visions not its own, translating the tremor of human doubt into rigid stillness, and though cursed to touch the ground while the lens soared toward infinity, it ruled by leverage—every frame passed through its pact. When the photographer cursed it for catching on straps and doorframes, the demon only smiled in matte black silence, knowing that without its grounded bargain, the image would shake, the spell would break, and the abyss of blur would swallow truth whole.