The lights flickered, snapping again and again. Cameras clicked in rhythmic flashes like thunder without sound. A haze of perfume and heat filled the air. Yume stood tall, spine straight, her delicate fingers curled elegantly near her face as the photographer barked instructions.
"Chin up, Yume. Little more light in those eyes—good. Now look over your shoulder... yes, that's the angle."
A pause.
"Heels, darling. Posture!"
She obeyed. She always did. Because that's what they expected—the perfect doll. Glossed lips, porcelain skin. But under the satin sleeves of her dress, faint purples and blues bloomed like broken constellations.
"Cut!"
Her manager stormed toward her, clipboard smacking against her thigh. "What did I tell you about showing up with bruises again?" she hissed, dragging Yume aside.
Yume flinched. "I-I'm sorry. I'll cover them better next time."
"That's not the damn point!" her manager snapped but then exhaled sharply. "Look, I don't ask where they come from, alright? Just fix it. You're not some fighter on a battlefield—you're a face. A brand."
Yume only nodded, eyes cast down. "Understood."
Minutes later, she exited the studio's side door into the early dusk. The sky was painted in tired orange and lilac hues. She dug through her designer clutch for her phone, trying to call a cab when a voice like chilled iron cut through the air behind her.
"No need," the voice growled. "Get in the car."
Yume froze.
Turning slowly, she saw him—Felix. Her husband.
Sharp suit. Colder eyes. And that same never-fading look of disapproval on his face.
She silently obeyed, slipping into the sleek black car. The moment the doors clicked shut, the air shifted.
Felix didn't wait. "You've been wasting your time again, haven't you?" he spat. "This stupid modeling—acting cute for cameras. Pathetic."
Yume kept her hands folded on her lap. "It's my job... I'm under contract."
"It's embarrassing. You're married to me and still running around showing your skin to strangers?"
Her lips tightened, saying nothing.
Suddenly, the car jolted to a stop.
"What the hell?!" Felix barked, glaring at the driver. "Why did you stop?"
The driver hesitated, looking at the congested road. "Sir… there's some kind of hold-up. Traffic's backed up—"
"Useless!" Felix growled, wrenching the door open. "I'll see what the hell is going on."
"No, wait!" Yume reached for him. "It might be dangerous!"
He shoved her roughly back into the seat. "Stay put, idiot."
Outside, the atmosphere was charged with tension. Several men stood ahead—tattooed, built like tanks, eyes like they'd seen war and caused it.
Felix, being Felix, stomped toward them. "Hey! What the hell are you doing blocking the road? Move your damn junk—"
One of them, tall with a thick neck and a glare to kill, stepped forward and grabbed Felix by the collar. "You've got a damn mouth for a guy wearing a silk tie."
Before anything else could escalate, a calm voice echoed behind the men.
"Let him go. We didn't come here for this."
The voice belonged to Bob—short dark hair, eyes that measured people like knives across a table. His presence made even the other brutes back off.
The man shoved Felix away with a grunt. "Tch. Lucky day."
But Bob's eyes drifted.
To the car.
To the woman inside.
He saw her.
Yume. Her eyes peeking just barely above the window.
Unmoving. Fragile.
Bob's lips barely curved as he looked back at Felix. "You've got a pretty lady in there... for someone with an ugly temper like yours."
Felix clenched his fists. "Do you even know who my father is!?"
Bob raised an eyebrow coolly. "Why? Your mother didn't tell you?"
Silence.
Felix's face turned crimson with fury, but before he could retaliate, one of the men whispered urgently, "Cops are coming."
Bob gave Felix a final glance. "Not worth the trouble."
With that, they vanished into the crowd like smoke.
Felix returned, slamming the car door behind him.
"This is all because of you!" he snarled, glaring at Yume. "You useless bitch."
Yume flinched again, her fingers clenched around her phone. Her thumb hovered over the number she had typed in. Police.
She deleted it.
Silence sat between them for the rest of the ride.
---
Scene shift
In the cold interior of an abandoned villa far from the city, Bob stood across from a throne-like chair in the shadows.
A cigarette burned slowly between two fingers. The scent of gun oil and smoke lingered in the air.
"So you went there," the voice growled, heavy with authority, "and came back empty-handed?"
Bob lowered his head. "Boss... Carlos's son showed up."
A pause.
"You remember him, right?"
The figure didn't speak.
Bob continued. "Hot-tempered brat. Interrupted things."
"I don't give a shit about him," the man snapped. "We had a plan—"
"She was there," Bob said suddenly.
That silenced the room.
Bob kept his eyes on the floor. "I saw your runaway bride with him."
The room stood still—thick with silence, so dense it felt like even the walls were holding their breath.
Bob slowly straightened, his eyes carefully avoiding the man in the shadows. "That's all," he murmured, voice low with unspoken weight. He knew better than to linger.
With a curt bow, he turned and walked away, the echo of his footsteps fading into the hall like a whisper dissolving into smoke.
Then, there was nothing.
Just the crackle of a dying fire in the corner hearth.
Kris sat in the center of the darkness—an immovable force dressed in black, shadows clinging to him like second skin. He didn't move. Not even when the last embers gave their final glow. He sat still, elbows resting on the armrests of his chair carved from mahogany, every inch of him coiled calm, like a lion at rest.
A faint beam of moonlight slipped in through a high, cracked window and fell across his arm—revealing the heavy silver chain around his wrist, engraved with Latin script, and the inked cross etched just above his pulse. A symbol of faith long abandoned… or perhaps something darker now.
His knuckles flexed once. Slow.
The name hit his chest like a slow-moving bullet.
She was alive.
His runaway bride.
His jaw tightened. Something flickered behind his usually unreadable eyes. Pain? Fury? Maybe both, bleeding into each other until even he couldn't tell them apart.
His voice, when it came, was low—like gravel beneath steel, soft but deadly.
"…Yume."