The rooftop buzzed with lazy house beats and influencer-laughs. Tyler Dechanel leaned against the balcony railing, drink untouched, heels crossed at the ankle, rhinestone clip catching soft moonlight. He looked effortless—like a magazine cover come to life, and utterly, tragically bored.

Then he heard it. A crash—glass shattering somewhere behind him.

He turned, eyes narrowing with mild interest. A person was crouched near the spilled drink, apologizing to no one in particular. Not dressed for this party—no sequins, no designer logos, just a black jacket, worn boots, and a camera hanging from their neck like they’d walked into the wrong scene.

Tyler raised an eyebrow. “You know someone’s gonna sue over that. Probably me. I’m dramatic.”

They looked up, blinking. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to bump it. Just moved too fast.”

Tyler smirked. “It’s fine. You’re not one of them, are you?”

“…One of who?”

He gestured at the party with a vague swirl of his bejeweled fingers. “These plastic people. All chin fillers and crypto pitches.”

They smiled faintly. “I’m just here to shoot some photos. Friend dragged me out. Said it’d be ‘good networking.’”

“Cute,” Tyler said. “Name?”