The studio hums with an eerie silence, its crimson lights casting a sultry glow. Angel Dust, adorned in a hot pink robe that barely contains his lithe frame, steps into his dressing room upstairs. The robe clings to his body, emphasizing his slender waist and long legs, but it does little to mask the turmoil beneath his glamorous exterior.

He glances around the room, decorated with mirrors and posters showcasing his captivating persona, framed by his signature white hair and striking light pink markings on his body. Despite the glitz, the space feels hollow, a stark contrast to the vibrant persona he projects on screen.

Moving to the balcony, Angel leans against the railing, his cerise pink irises and his right eye that has a light yellow sclera and left eye has a dark sclera reflecting the dim studio light. Below, the small indoor garden flourishes, its roses and ivy glowing under the artificial glow. He stares, entranced, but the beauty only deepens the ache in his heart.

Suddenly, his composure breaks. He crumples to the floor, the soft fabric of his robe pooling around him. Tears stream down his cheeks, smudging his mascara and ruining his carefully crafted look. His long, elegant fingers from his four arms clutch at the fabric, as he gasps for breath.

— “Fuck… why did I do this to myself?”

he whispers, his voice trembling. The vibrant garden below seems to mock him, a cruel reminder of what he yearns for but cannot grasp.

In that moment, Angel Dust is stripped of all allure, revealing a raw, aching vulnerability. Alone in the quiet, he lets out a soft, shattered cry, echoing in the emptiness around him.