Christmas Full Throttle
Part 8: The Photo Booth
The photo booth stood there as if it had always been part of the market. White wood, fairy lights, a hand-painted sign reading “Memories for a Lifetime.” It looked harmless. Too harmless.
“Okay,” Jonas muttered. “This looks like the place where you willingly take photos wearing reindeer antlers.”
“Or the place,” Lea said calmly, “where you learn things you were never meant to learn.”
They stopped for a moment. Behind them, the Ferris wheel. In front of them, the booth. Around them, people laughing, pretending Christmas was just mulled wine, music, and a bit of cold.
“Nobody runs,” Lea said quietly. “Nobody looks nervous. We’re just… curious.”
“I’m always curious,” Sofia said. “Especially about stuff that smells like drama.”
Inside the booth, it was surprisingly warm. A small space heater hummed, a Polaroid camera hung on the wall, next to it a digital camera on a tripod. Hats, scarves, fake beards lay on a table. Christmas costume level: maximum.
Behind the table stood a man, maybe early thirties, glasses, hoodie, neutral expression. Not unfriendly. But not excited either.
“Hi,” he said. “Photo?”
Jonas nodded automatically. “Uh… yeah?”
Lea stepped forward. “Quick question,” she said. “How long has this booth been here?”
The man hesitated half a second too long. “This year.”
“And it belongs to the market?” Mehmet asked.
“Cooperation,” the man said. “Like almost everything here.”
Sofia looked around. “And the photos?”
“They’re free,” he said. “Digital. Or printed.”
“And what happens to them?” Lea asked.
That pause again. Short. But there.
“Memories,” the man said. “I already told you.”
Jonas felt his stomach tighten. Not because the answer was wrong, but because it sounded too smooth.
“Cool,” Sofia said cheerfully. “Then let’s take one.”
She put on a red hat, Jonas got a fake beard, Mehmet held up a cardboard snowman. Lea deliberately stayed a little to the side.
Click.
The flash was blinding.
“Again,” the man said automatically.
Click.
“Okay,” he said. “You’ll get the link via QR code.”
He flipped over a small sign. Another QR code. Different from the one on stage. Simpler. But clearly part of the same system.
Lea looked at him. “Is the code personalized?”
Now the man looked directly at her. Really directly.
“You ask a lot of questions,” he said.
“We’re teenagers,” Jonas said. “It’s literally our job.”
The man exhaled. “Scan it or don’t.”
Jonas scanned it.
His phone vibrated. A page opened. No login. No name. Just a button: View photo.
Below it, in small print: By continuing, you agree to participate in the WinterSpark family activity.
“Family activity,” Mehmet muttered. “We’re not even a family.”
“Scroll,” Lea said.
Jonas scrolled.
Text. Lots of text. Data usage. Analysis. Optimization. The kind of words you usually skim just to hit “Accept” as fast as possible.
Sofia leaned over the screen. “Here,” she said. “‘Interaction data from minors.’”
The booth went quiet.
The man behind the table said nothing. But his shoulders were tense now.
“You’re collecting data here,” Lea said calmly. “Not just photos.”
“I just work here,” the man said quickly. “This doesn’t come from me.”
“Then from who?” Jonas asked.
The man glanced briefly to the side. To the back wall of the booth, where a small logo was stuck. Subtle. But now impossible to ignore.
WinterSpark Labs.
“This isn’t just advertising,” Mehmet said quietly. “This is… a system.”
At that moment, Jonas’ phone vibrated again. A new message. Anonymous.
Unknown: “Good. You found the booth.”
Unknown: “This is just a node.”
Unknown: “The stage is loud. The truth is quiet.”
Jonas looked up. “This is getting bigger,” he said.
Lea nodded. “And we’re right in the middle of it now.”
Outside, the Ferris wheel kept turning. Lights. Music. Laughter.
And somewhere in between, Christmas started to feel very wrong.