A stack of blank broadsheets is all possibility and no record: anything could be printed, so nothing can be checked. A character kept on a broadsheet card is the one sheet this studio actually writes. Redescribed at every job, she is re-drafted like a rumour — a hairstyle softened here, a signature detail dropped there — and by the ninth frame the stack shows two similar women instead of one. Written once and kept on top of the stack, the card is simply read.
The card holds five lines in fixed order. Age — a plain number, and here a mature one. Hair — colour, length and one habitual style. Build — two or three words, no more. Face — one or two details that endure every crop. Signature — the detail that survives even a tight frame. Everything else goes on the sitting’s slip beneath the card: outfit, corner, hour, light — changed at every sitting, kept under the card, never written over it.
The routine is plain. Paste the card, word for word, at the head of every prompt. Generate at the standard cost of 6 credits, keep the best third, and spend on repairs, swaps and upscales only after judging — judged against the card on the stack, not against the previous frame, which may itself have drifted off the sheet.
A thousand blank sheets, one written. The written one is the whole archive of this studio, and it is five lines long.