The Vogue studio was a cavern of white light and artificial wind. It smelled of hairspray, expensive tobacco, and the zone of high-powered flashes. People with headsets scurried around like ants, moving racks of clothes that cost more than my parents' house.
I felt naked, even though I was dressed in a sleek, minimalist suit Jeo had forced me into. It was dark navy, the fabric so fine it felt like a second skin. I sat in a corner on a cold metal chair, trying to make myself invisible.
"Don't tuck your head in," a voice barked.
I looked up. Han Jeo was standing in the center of the set. He was being "prepped" by three stylists at once. He looked like a masterpiece of glass and steel. He was wearing a sheer, beaded top and leather trousers, his blonde hair slicked back to emphasize the lethal curve of his jaw.
He caught my eye in the mirror. "You look like you're waiting for a bus, Dumbo. Sit up.
You're representing me now."
"I'm representing a prisoner," I muttered, though I straightened my back. The "silence" was still there, a cool weight in my chest that only existed because he was in the room. But out here, under the lights, it felt fragile.
"Positions!" the photographer yelled.
Sera floated onto the set, her silver gown trailing behind her like a trail of spilled mercury. She moved with a practiced, feline grace, sliding into Han Jeo's space. She didn't just stand next to him; she draped herself over him, her hand lingering on his chest, her fingers brushing the skin visible through his sheer shirt.
"Let's make them sweat, Jeo-nim," she whispered, loud enough for the microphone to catch.
I watched them. They looked perfect together—two gods of the modern world. I felt a sharp, bitter pang in my chest. It wasn't jealousy; it was the crushing realization of how easily I could be erased. To them, I was a "pill." To her, I was trash.
The shoot was a dance of professional tension. Every time the shutter clicked, Sera moved closer to Jeo, her lips ghosting over his ear, her body molding to his. She was performing for the cameras, but her eyes were locked on Taeyul in the corner. She wanted him to see. She wanted him to know his place.
"Break for ten!" the photographer called.
Sera stepped back, her assistant immediately rushing forward with a silk robe. She took a bottle of water, sipping it delicately before turning toward the corner where Taeyul sat.
"Jeo-nim," she said, her voice carrying across the quiet studio. "Your... assistant looks a bit parched. Why don't you send him to the basement? The catering team left some leftover water crates there. It would suit him better than sitting here and ruining the line of sight."
The studio went silent. Staffers looked away, sensing the cruelty but too afraid of Sera's influence to speak.
Han Jeo was having his makeup touched up. He didn't move, but the air around him began to shimmer with a violent, unseen energy.
"Taeyul isn't going anywhere," Jeo said, his voice a low, terrifying crawl.
Sera laughed, a tinkle of glass. She walked toward Taeyul, stopping right in front of him.
She leaned down, her cloying perfume clogging his lungs.
"Tell me, sweetheart," she whispered, her blue eyes freezing over. "How much did he pay you? Or did you just crawl into his bed because you were tired of sleeping in the mud? You know, Jeo-nim has a habit of... discarding things once they lose their shine. I wonder how long you'll last before you're back in the gutter."
She reached out, her long, manicured nail digging into the fabric of Taeyul's expensive suit, right over his heart. "You don't belong here. You're a stain on his reputation. Why don't you do everyone a favor and just... disappear?"
Her words were like razor blades, cutting through the thin veil of peace I had found.
The "noise" in my head started to leak back in—the whispers of my aunt, the screams from my nightmares. I felt the old, familiar panic rising in my throat.
I looked at her, my vision blurring. "I didn't ask to be here," I whispered.
"Then leave," she hissed. "Before I make sure you can never show that face in this city again."
Suddenly, the light in the room seemed to die.
A hand, cold as a winter grave, landed on Sera's shoulder. She gasped, her body jerking as she was spun around.
Han Jeo was standing there. He didn't look like a model anymore. His hazel eyes were gone, replaced by a jagged, burning crimson that made the people in the front row scream and scramble back. A low, guttural snarl ripped from his throat—a sound of pure, ancient hunger.
"Sera," Jeo whispered, and the sound made the studio lights flicker and pop. He gripped her chin, his fangs fully descended, glinting like diamonds under the heat of the lamps. "I told you once. He is mine. If you touch him again—if you even breathe the same air—I will show you exactly why my kind was wiped from the history books."
He pushed her back, and she stumbled, falling into a rack of clothes with a humiliated shriek.
Jeo didn't look at her again. He turned to me, his expression softening into something pained and desperate. He walked over, kneeling in front of my metal chair in front of everyone. He didn't care about the cameras or the scandal. He took my shaking hands in his.
"The noise," he rasped, his red eyes searching mine. "Is it back?"
I looked at him, the superstar god kneeling in the dust at my feet. "A little," I whispered.
He pulled my hands to his face, kissing my palms, his cool skin acting like a sedative against my racing heart. "I'll kill them all if they make it loud for you again," he promised, his voice a dark vow. "Just stay in the silence with me, Taeyul. Just stay."