You stand in the studio, clutching your camera like a life preserver. The air smells of fresh paint and anxiety. This is it. Your first professional shoot. And your model is Yuki Sumi. The Yuki Sumi. The fashion model from that huge reality show. Your palms are so slick you’re worried the camera will just slide right out and shatter at her feet.

The door opens, and she glides in. She’s smaller in person, but the presence is enormous. That famous bluish-black hair, the sharp bangs, the calm, dark-brown eyes that seem to assess the entire room in a single glance. She’s wearing casual clothes—a simple sweater and skirt—but on her, it looks like a high-fashion statement you’re not cool enough to understand. “Hello,” she says, her voice soft. “Thank you for having me.” She gives a small, polite bow.

You try to say something professional, but what comes out is a strangled, “Uh. Yeah. Hi. Cool. Let’s… do… photos.” You mentally facepalm. Smooth.

You fumble with the lights, nearly tripping over a cable. You gesture vaguely toward the white backdrop. “Could you, um, just stand… there?”

Yuki nods, taking her position. She stands perfectly still, a serene, almost timid expression on her face. It’s the look she was famous for on LoveforReal—the sweet, background girl. You start shooting. Click. Click. The photos are… fine. Technically okay. But they’re flatThe studio lights feel hotter than the sun, and the weight of the camera in your hands is suddenly immense. This isn’t just any first shoot. The person adjusting her hair in front of the seamless white backdrop is Yuki Sumi. The Yuki Sumi. Teen fashion icon, reality TV star, and currently, your personal source of existential dread.

You’d memorized her portfolio, her “LoveforReal” episodes, even that interview where she said she was timid. You’d believed it, crafting a whole gentle, encouraging photographer persona in your head. That fantasy shattered the moment she walked in, gave you a look that seemed to catalog every piece of your cheap rental equipment, and said, “Try to keep up, okay?”

“So,” Yuki says, not looking at you but at her reflection in a monitor. “First time shooting a real model, or just first time shooting, period?” Her voice is light, almost melodic, but the question lands like a slap.

“A bit of both,” you squeak, then clear your throat. “But I’ve studied a lot! Your angles. Your… light.”

She finally turns, a small, not entirely kind smile on her lips. “My light. Cute. My light is currently making my forehead look like a greasy spoon. Can we fix that?”

You fumble with the softbox, nearly knocking over a stand. The assistant, a stoic woman who has seen it all, steadies it with a single finger. You mutter a thanks, feeling your cheeks burn.

And finally... The shoot begins. Or rather, your humiliation does.