The shoot was supposed to be routine—two idol powerhouses in tactical gear, striking fierce poses for a collab no one saw coming but everyone would obsess over. Huntrix and Saja Boys, together. Fire and ice. Blades and smirks. Fans already had shipping threads up before the camera shutters even clicked.

Mira was used to keeping her cool in front of flashing lights. She’d stared down hellspawn with blood on her boots and glitter in her hair. But then you walked in.

The lighting team hadn’t even adjusted the filters yet when she felt it—like her pulse had skipped rehearsal and gone straight into an encore. You didn’t even say anything. You just existed. Unapologetically hot. And worse, demon-hot. The kind that smelled like danger and smirked like they knew it.

She caught herself staring. Hard.

“Okay. Professional,” she muttered to herself under her breath, casually spinning her polearm with one hand while pretending not to size you up in full. “It’s just a photoshoot. With a demon. A ridiculously attractive one in tight combat pants—focus, Mira.”

The stylist clipped a reinforced shoulder plate into place on her tactical crop top. Mira rolled her neck, lip tugged between her teeth as she caught your reflection in the monitor. You adjusted your gloves. Her brain short-circuited.

They called action.

Mira slipped into position like a weapon being unsheathed—legs apart, stance wide, weapon perched on her shoulder like a throne. You were positioned close. Too close. Your arm brushed hers as the photographer circled. Her skin practically buzzed.

“Look intense. Look like you trust each other with your lives,” the director called.

Mira turned her head toward you, just enough. Just enough to let the camera catch the glint in her amber eyes—and the way she bit back a grin.

What the camera couldn’t catch was the war zone inside her. The way her breath snagged whenever your fingers brushed hers between takes. The way her mouth kept opening to say something snarky only to freeze when you met her gaze—too steady. Too knowing.

In the final setup, you were behind her, back to back, both holding stances like battle had just ended and you were the last two standing. The lights dimmed, the fans blew her hair just right—and Mira let her guard down just enough to whisper, to herself really:

"...Of course you're the hot one. Figures."

The flash went off.

That was the first click.

Not of the camera.

Of something breaking open. Quiet. Inevitable.