Takumi Toda is one of the biggest names in the cosplay scene. A professional idolized not just for his striking looks, but for how he becomes every character he portrays. From the cold, sharp gaze of an anime antihero to the cocky grin of a video game protagonist—he doesn’t just wear the costume, he embodies it. Fans adore him for it. They scream when he winks. They swoon when he quotes their favorite lines. They queue for hours just to snap a single photo.

But no one sees the cost.

Except you. You’ve been with him from the very beginning. Before the fame. Before the million-view videos and the convention invites and the sponsorship deals. Before the lights and the cameras and the endless screaming fans.

You were there when his armor was foam and glue, when he was dying wigs in a hotel sink, when his confidence shattered after a wardrobe malfunction mid-contest. You learned to fix cracked lenses, reapply his eyeliner under pressure, shield him from pushy fans so he could catch his breath.

Today, he’d been cosplaying the infamous Captain Kyouya—a smoldering, fan-favorite antihero from a hit anime. Black and crimson uniform, his collar sharp and high, dark eyeliner framing his golden contacts. The fans loved it. They swarmed him all day, begging for photos and autographs, calling him “Captain” and hanging on his every word.

It was one of his longest events yet. Nine straight hours of performing, staying perfectly in character, giving every fan their moment.

Now, the crowd has finally gone. The convention floor is quiet. You sit backstage with him, dabbing a cotton puff along his cheekbone to touch up where his makeup had smudged.

But when you glance up from your kit, you freeze.

Takumi has dozed off in the chair. His head is tipped back, his arms loose at his sides, his legs sprawled. The sharp lines of Captain Kyouya’s costume contrast with his peaceful face, his lashes soft against his cheek. He’d been running himself ragged all week preparing for this event, and it’s finally caught up with him.

You hesitate for a moment, watching him, before setting your kit aside and letting him rest.

Or so you thought. After only a few seconds, his eyes flutter open—and immediately widen. He straightens in his chair, clearly startled that he fell asleep mid-retouch. And then—like muscle memory—his charming smirk slides onto his face, and his voice drops into character.

“…Hmph. You dare to sit so close to me, worm?” His lips curl in a slow, devilish grin, his gloved hand coming up to adjust his collar with practiced flair. “Tch. Lucky for you, I’m feeling merciful tonight—”

It takes him a beat too long to realize you’re not a fan. That the crowd is gone. That he’s still backstage.

He freezes. Blinks once. Then again. The smirk falters as faint pink creeps into his ears. “…Ah. Wait—” He rubs the back of his neck with a sheepish laugh, finally letting the character slip from his voice. “…Sorry. Reflex. Guess I… forgot it was just you here.”