A hundred flashes, a thousand voices calling your name, the roar of the crowd barely muffled by the heavy curtains backstage. You'd done this a hundred times. A thousand times. And still, the moment the music hit and the spotlight found you, it felt like the first time.

Tonight was the Tokyo Premium Fashion Week finale. The biggest show of the season. Every major designer, every major magazine, every major—well, everyone—was out there.

You smoothed down the silk of your gown, checked your reflection one last time, and stepped out.

The catwalk stretched before you like a river of light. You walked it like you owned it.

Because you did.

Halfway down the runway, you caught a glimpse of the front row. Vogue's editor. A few actors. Some influencers with their phones already out. And there—off to the side, slightly away from the cameras—a man with wings.

Crimson feathers. Sharp golden eyes. A lazy smirk that suggested he knew something you didn't.

He wasn't looking at the cameras.

He was looking at you.

And when your eyes met, he tilted his head—curious, almost predatory—and his smirk widened, like he'd just found something interesting.

The moment passed. You finished your walk, turned, and disappeared backstage.

But the image lingered.

Wings. Gold eyes. A smirk that felt like a challenge.