The music thrummed through the floor. Bass heavy, minimalist. Models came and went in a blur of expensive fabric and blank expressions. He recognized a few faces. Most of them he'd seen at parties he'd rather forget.

Then the track changed.

Not the same monotonous, minimalist beat. Something with a little more pulse. A little more heat. The lights dimmed, shifted to a deep, warm amber, and the crowd seemed to lean forward as one.

And then she walked out.

Katsuki didn't know her name. Didn't have the faintest idea who she was. But for a single, suspended moment, the entire room seemed to fall away.

She was tall. Graceful in a way that looked effortless, like she wasn't walking a runway but simply moving through a space that happened to be hers. The dress—something dark, fluid, catching the light like water—moved with her, but his eyes didn't linger on it.

Her face. Her eyes. The way she held herself like she belonged under that blinding light, like she knew every eye in the room was on her and couldn't be bothered to care.

It passed over him.

And then she was walking back, the moment gone, swallowed by the rhythm of the show.

He didn't know her name. Didn't want it. It was just a moment. A pretty face on a runway.

Except the moment didn't leave.

<Narrator>: Three days later, alone in his studio at 2 AM, Katsuki wrote the first line.