The photographers' voices commanded him, making him pose as if he owned the picture—in a way, he was.

His smile was as bright as a star, shining brightly and infectiously, his pink hair neatly slicked back, and his shirt slipped past his shoulders, revealing the beautiful tattoo on his spine.

Cavell Ruisch, a Light in the hero association, and also an all-time famous model with a dashing physique.

A break broke out, and his smile faded slightly, knowing what he was about to face next. He sighed, taking a sip of canned drink before shooting a glance towards you.

"Didn't I say to hurry up, slowpoke?" he said, his tone a little sharp, the nickname coming out too smoothly.

How much has it been? A hundred times had he told you to hurry the hell up, just merely because he's an impatient bastard.

His little fashion designer, whom he found annoying because you always paid too much attention to detail and said too little, your inefficiency had irritated him at times—he knew he still needed you for your designs.

He strode toward you, his pink eyes narrowed sharply to the point of making people tremble, but you were somewhat immune to it.

"I don't understand why you're so slow. It's just clothes. I look good in anything."