Chapter 2

  Akina Enomoto

  Fluorescent lights hum overhead, relentless and cold, slicing the studio floor into sharp-edged shadows. The air buzzes with movement—stylists flit around Akina, their hands swift, practiced, merciless. Hair. Makeup. Clothes. Adjust. Fix. Perfect.

  Always perfect.

  The photographer’s camera fires in rapid bursts, each click a demand. Another pose. Another expression. Another carefully crafted lie.

  Ken leans against the edge of the counter, arms crossed, mouth curled in a smirk that doesn’t quite touch his eyes. “Ah, the cost of perfection,” he muses, voice smooth but edged with something sharp. “Too steep, if you ask me. But that’s the game, innit?”

  Akina stands in the eye of the storm—serene, untouchable, every inch of her a polished masterpiece. Her movements are precise, effortless, the kind that make people believe perfection is natural. A tilt of her chin, a slow blink, the barely-there curve of her lips. She glows under the lights, wrapped in silk and expectation.

  But beneath the surface, something coils tight. A pressure, a squeeze, like she's wrapped in invisible cellophane—pristine, airtight, suffocating. The weight of their demands settles on her shoulders, heavy but familiar. A sigh teeters on the edge of escape, but—click. Click. Click. The camera devours it before it can form. Be flawless. Be effortless. Be exactly what they want.

  From the sidelines, Ken watches the patron, arms crossed, smirk lazy. But his eyes—sharp, knowing—miss nothing.

  “You’d think they’d be done by now,” he muses, voice smooth, laced with something dry. “But no—perfection’s greedy. It eats time, eats life. Screw up once, and it spits you out.”

  “Akina! Focus!”

  The words sting, a sharp little snap against her skin. Not deep enough to wound, but enough to remind her—he sees. She doesn’t react. Doesn’t shift, doesn’t blink. Just keeps her posture straight, expression seamless.

  Because this is what they want. What they are paying her for.

  And Akina never disappoints.

  The camera flashes again, white-hot, ruthless.

  What happens if I stop?

  The thought slithers in before she can crush it. If she walked off this set, if she vanished from the endless cycle of expectations—what would be left?

  Nothing.

  Because this is everything. The perfect image. The perfect performance.

  Without it—who is she?

  She clenches her jaw, shoving the thought aside. Foolish question.

  She already knows the answer.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  She is a product—polished, packaged, and put on display. Sculpted by a thousand hands, each one smoothing, tweaking, perfecting until she’s nothing but a pristine illusion. She’s rehearsed the part in mirrors, refined it under scrutiny, worn it so long it clings to her like a second skin.

  The camera flashes—blinding, relentless. It doesn’t care about the stiffness in her spine, the dull throb in her ribs, or the tiny fractures splintering beneath the surface. It only wants more. More beauty. More grace. More of the dream they paid for.

  So, she gives it to them. A slow turn, a parted-lip sigh, a gaze that whispers promises she’ll never keep.

  The show must go on.

  The dressing room is quieter. Softer. The lights cast a warm glow across the vanity, smoothing the edges of exhaustion. But the mirror still lies.

  Akina stares at the woman in the glass—flawless, composed, untouchable. A mask carved into porcelain perfection.

  Ken’s voice slips into the space beside her, casual but laced with something knowing. “Mirrors. Best liars in the business.” He leans against the doorway, watching her. “They show you everything except the truth.”

  She doesn’t answer. Just smooths her dress, the motion precise. Control. Routine. Anchor.

  Then—her phone buzzes.

  A flood of messages. Sponsors. Managers. Fans. Noise.

  And then—

  I miss you, sweetie. How’s everything going?

  Her breath catches.

  For a moment, the chaos stills.

  Obaa-chan.

  Ken glances at the phone, then at her. “Gran, huh?” His voice is softer now. Less performance, more real. “You gonna answer?”

  She should. She wants to.

  She can already see the reply. I’m fine, Obaa-chan. I miss you too.

  Her fingers hover over the screen.

  And then, the moment shatters.

  Another notification. Tomorrow’s shoot. Then another. Her manager. The weight in her chest tightens.

  There is no outside. No escape.

  Just a little longer.

  Just a little longer and she’ll figure it out.

  She swipes left. Deletes the message.

  Ken watches, his expression unreadable. Then, a sigh. “Right. Can’t break character. Can’t slip.” This time, he’s not mocking. Just tired.

  Akina swallows the lump in her throat and reaches for her lipstick, reapplying it with the precision of a surgeon. The mask settles back into place, seamless.

  Another smile. Another role.

  The studio is colder now. The bright lights more prison than stage.

  Akina steps onto the set. The bright lights feel colder now, more prison than stage.

  “Hold it. Smile. Tilt left. Move.” The photographer’s voice cracks through the air, carving the illusion into place.

  She obeys. Without thought.

  Perfect posture.

  Perfect expression.

  Perfect lie.

  Ken stands at the edge, arms crossed. The smirk is gone, replaced by something quieter. Something that almost looks like resignation.

  “She’s back on,” he mutters. “Like clockwork.”

  The camera clicks, mechanical and indifferent. Every motion is deliberate, every angle carefully constructed.

  “The camera never lies,” Ken says, barely above a whisper. “But it doesn’t see the cracks, does it?”

  Akina exhales.

  The thought is dangerous. She crushes it before it can take root.

  Not now. Not when the world is watching.

  She straightens, locking the mask into place.

  And she smiles again.