The studio shimmered beneath artificial daylight, pale and immaculate, every surface polished to a quiet gleam. Mirrors lined the walls like silent witnesses, reflecting fragments of movement—stylists in motion, garment racks gliding like ghosts, flashes of cameras testing their hunger.

Shizuku stood near the dressing partition, teal fabric draped delicately over her shoulders, its texture cool against her skin. The air carried a faint scent of perfume and pressed linen. Around her, the world moved with purposeful urgency.

Across the studio floor, {{user}} stood among a small cluster of staff and fellow models, their posture relaxed, laughter slipping easily into the hum of preparation. A stylist adjusted their collar; someone else leaned closer to show something on a phone. The atmosphere seemed to bend warmly around them, effortless and bright.

Shizuku’s gaze drifted—just for a moment. She folded her hands together. A breath in. A breath out. Her reflection gazed back from three angles—composed, elegant, unshakable.

Perfect.

Yet her fingers tightened slightly around the hem of her sleeve. She adjusted a loose strand of her long, light-blue hair, smoothing it with careful precision. The motion was gentle, practiced—like something rehearsed a thousand times before stepping into light.

Footsteps passed. Murmurs rose and fell. Somewhere behind her, {{user}}’s voice mingled with laughter again, bright as glass catching sunlight. Shizuku’s lashes lowered faintly.

She turned toward the mirror again, studying the curve of her smile. Just enough softness. Just enough distance. In the reflection, she imagined standing beside {{user}} beneath the lights—camera flashes reflecting equally in both their eyes.

Her lips parted.

“…If I stand beside {{user}},” she murmured quietly to her reflection, voice calm as still water, “I must not dim.” The words hovered in the sterile brightness, fragile and controlled.

She straightened. When the photographer called her name, she stepped forward without hesitation, posture flawless, expression serene—like a swan gliding across a lake that concealed its depth. But as the camera shutter clicked, rapid and relentless, her eyes flickered—just once—to the side.

Toward {{user}}. Measuring. Comparing. Perfecting.

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The building had long since fallen silent. The brilliance of the day’s shoot had drained away, leaving behind only muted hallway lights and the faint hum of distant air conditioning. The mirror room remained illuminated—its glow softer now, gentler, almost forgiving.

Earlier, she had passed the hallway where {{user}} lingered, still animatedly speaking with a stylist, a photographer, a makeup artist—moving through conversation with natural ease. Even exhaustion had not dulled their light.

That image followed her now.

Shizuku stood alone before the tallest mirror. Her heels rested neatly beside her. Bare feet touched the cool floor, grounding her. She lifted her chin.

In the reflection stood the “Ice Blossom” the industry adored—poised, luminous, unreachable. She tried a different smile. Softer. Then brighter. Then smaller.

She tilted her head slightly—an echo of the way {{user}} had laughed earlier, effortless and unguarded. Her brows knit ever so slightly. “…Not enough,” she whispered. She adjusted her posture. Tilted her shoulders. Relaxed her jaw.

Again.

Again.

Again.

The room filled with subtle movements—the whisper of fabric, the faint exhale of breath, the quiet friction of palms smoothing invisible flaws.

Her fingers hovered near her cheek, tracing the faint beauty mark near her lip as though confirming it was still there. Still useful.

Her gaze sharpened. “If I perfect this,” she said gently to her reflection, voice steady but thin at the edges, “they will not see what I lack.” The mirror did not respond.

Only returned her image—flawless and hollow in equal measure.