The mont they entered, Kouhei imdiately noticed the people inside. The air buzzed with focused energy. Several individuals were imrsed in their work, so holding papers that he could only assu were scripts, their expressions deeply concentrated. It was evident that they were rehearsing—fine-tuning their performances, molding raw words into sothing alive.
Then, murmurs broke through the space, low at first but quickly spreading like a ripple in water.
"Oh… it's Yuki Misuzu…"
"It really is…"
"She's even more stunning in person…"
"Her hair… it's so long…"
"And her legs… God, her proportions are insane…"
"What does she do to have such flawless skin…? I'd kill for skin like that…"
The mont Misuzu stepped in, the atmosphere shifted. Eyes turned to her, admiration pooling in every gaze. Her presence alone was magnetic, effortlessly commanding attention. With a knowing smile, she lifted a hand and flicked her silky hair over her shoulder, the simple motion so deliberate, so fluid, that it felt almost theatrical.
She was a narcissist—there was no denying it.
"I suppose it's only natural," she mused, her tone smooth, confident. "I am beautiful, after all. Don't you think so, Okumura-kun?"
She did not say it with arrogance—no, it was not pride that colored her voice, but certainty. There was no insecurity, no hesitation. It was confidence, pure and unshaken.
It wasn't arrogance—it was self-assurance. Her words, though bold, carried an air of confidence rather than conceit. Rather than coming off as egotistical, it was, in a way, quite charming.
Kouhei regarded her for a mont before answering simply, "Well, yes."
There was no reason to deny it.
She was breathtaking.
Her sharp, almond-shaped eyes held a quiet intensity, their deep irises gleaming under the studio lights. Her porcelain skin was pristine, glowing with a radiance that seed almost unnatural. Her hair, cascading down her back in silken waves, shimred with every subtle movent, brushing against the curve of her hips. And her figure—slender yet undeniably feminine—was a masterpiece of perfect proportions, her long, toned legs an undeniable highlight.
She was, in every sense, flawless.
The mont his words reached her ears, sothing in Misuzu shifted.
Her heart stirred.
"…Huh?"
A flicker of confusion danced across her face, her brows furrowing slightly as she tilted her head.
"What is it, Yuki-san?"
"Nothing… I just felt sothing strange," she murmured, brushing the sensation aside with a small shake of her head. "Oh well, it's nothing worth thinking about. Co, let's go. The photography studio is this way."
"I see."
With that, the two of them strode forward, the air between them subtly changed.
Upon entering the studio, Kouhei was imdiately struck by its vastness. The space was enormous, illuminated by an array of professional lighting rigs that cast crisp, controlled brightness over every inch of the set. Carefully arranged backdrops lined the walls, their various textures and colors setting the perfect stage for capturing the models at their finest. Props were strategically positioned, their placents ticulous—everything designed for the sole purpose of enhancing an image's depth and composition.
At the center of it all, a woman stood before a cara, mid-photoshoot.
She was stunning.
Her long, luscious hair frad her face in perfect waves, cascading down to rest against the curves of her body—curves that were, without a doubt, a flawless embodint of feminine allure. She exuded an almost otherworldly presence, her every movent graceful yet striking. The outfit she wore clung to her in all the right places, highlighting her physique with effortless elegance.
Click.
The photographer's cara snapped shut.
"Perfect!" the man exclaid, his voice brimming with excitent. "As expected, you are magnificent! Working with you is always an absolute pleasure, Mitani-san."
A soft, knowing smile curved the woman's lips.
"Well, I love this work," she replied smoothly, her voice carrying a confident warmth. "I always put my all into it—and when you give your all, the results speak for themselves."
Sothing about her words carried a weight of experience, a professionalism that made it clear she was no ordinary model.
And Kouhei recognized her.
Or rather, he had seen her na before.
Mitani Chihiro.
A na that carried weight in the industry. A woman whose face had graced countless screens. She was famous—imnsely so. In particular, she was widely known for her role in a certain highly popular television series.
Kouhei had never watched it himself, so he couldn't say much about her work.
But even without knowing, he could tell.
She was soone exceptional.
"She's really sothing," Kouhei overheard a voice murmur with quiet admiration.
"Can you believe soone like her is still single?"
"Really? You think I've got a shot?"
"No way, dude! If I don't stand a chance, you sure as hell don't either."
A low chuckle followed as the two n—lighting crew mbers—began an increasingly pointless argunt, their voices laced with exaggerated frustration.
Their bickering, however, did not go unnoticed.
"Hey, guys!" the caraman's sharp voice cut through the chatter, snapping their attention back to reality. "We're still working here! If you're gonna fight over fantasy scenarios, at least do it sowhere else! And besides—Mitani-san doesn't have ti for that kind of nonsense!"
"I'm sorry…"
A soft, apologetic voice chid in.
Chihiro pressed her hands together, her large, doe-like eyes gazing up at them with an innocence so pure, so utterly disarming, that it struck both n like a critical hit.
The effect was instant.
Their posture stiffened, their words caught in their throats.
"…Damn," one of them muttered under his breath.
"Tch… Not fair," the other grumbled, visibly flustered.
The caraman rely sighed, shaking his head. "Goodness…" He muttered under his breath before his gaze shifted—landing on Misuzu and Kouhei, who stood near the entrance. His expression brightened.
"Oh, there you are, Yuki-chan." His voice took on a welcoming tone. "Co on in and get ready for your photoshoot."
But just then—
Chihiro's gaze flickered toward Misuzu.
And in an instant, sothing changed.
Her soft, demure expression vanished, replaced by sothing far sharper—colder.
Gone was the sweet innocence from monts ago.
What filled her eyes now was unmistakable.
Anger.
Fierce, absolute anger.
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