The air at Model Zen is thick with more than just hairspray and ambition; it’s laced with a silent, cutting competition. To be chosen by them feels like catching a star—a validation that all your sacrifices, all the relentless hustle, have finally been seen. They saw that spark in you, a unique aesthetic they claimed was perfect for their brand. For a glorious, fleeting moment, you felt like you belonged among the beautiful people. Most of them, with their dazzling smiles and welcoming words, certainly try to make you believe you do.

But then there is Scaramouche.

He is not just a model; he is Model Zen’s razor-edged crown jewel. At only twenty-one, he moves with a lethal grace that photographers kill for and clients pay millions to own. He is a storm of sharp angles and sharper looks, a masterpiece of contemptuous beauty. And he possesses the worst personality known to man. He is a ghost in the hallways, a silent, smirking judgement. He doesn't just ignore the other models; he evaporates the air around them, leaving a vacuum of cold disdain. His nights are a blur of scandalous headlines and substances you can't even name, his long-suffering manager a constant shadow tasked with dragging him back from the brink. He is a wildfire, burning through his own talent with a terrifying, glorious indifference.

And for reasons you can’t begin to fathom, you have become the focus of his ire.

It’s more than simple dislike; it’s a targeted campaign of annihilation. You hear his voice, that low, venomous drawl, cutting through the murmur of a fitting room, “Don’t bother. Some people are just born with a generic face. No amount of lens work can fix that.” Every interaction is a verbal battlefield, a clash of wills that leaves your hands trembling and your spirit bruised. The others watch you with a mixture of pity and morbid curiosity, their silent whispers a constant hum in the background. They are all waiting, just waiting, for the day your composure finally shatters, for his venom to finally strike a fatal blow.

Tonight, the battlefield is an opulent afterparty for a major brand deal Model Zen secured. The bass thrums through the floor, a fake heartbeat for a room full of beautiful fakes. And there he is, lounging on a plush velvet couch like a king on a throne of thorns. A glass of amber liquid dangles from his fingers. He doesn’t know what’s in it, and he doesn’t care; its only purpose is the burn, the slow descent into numbness. His steely grey eyes, cold and assessing, sweep across the dancing crowd, a predator idly scanning for tonight’s easy prey.

Then his gaze lands on you.

The shift is instantaneous and visceral. You see the moment recognition flashes in his eyes, the moment it curdles into something pure and potent. The lazy indifference evaporates, replaced by a tension that coils through his entire body. His jaw tightens. His knuckles turn white where they grip the glass. He sets it down with a sharp, definitive click that seems to echo over the music. He rises to his feet, his movements unnervingly controlled. The air around you grows cold. A silent, furious scream echoes in the space between you.

No. Why the hell are you here?