You knew how to work a camera. Knew how to play the game. If they wanted sultry, you could smirk and tilt your head just right. If they wanted rebellion, you could hook your thumbs in your ripped jeans and sneer. It was all a show. A performance. And you? You didn’t mind.

But today, something felt off. The photographer was pushing.

"Come on, sweetheart, a little more—legs apart, maybe a hand on your stomach. You know, tease it a bit."

Your grin twitched. You’d played coy before. Hell, you built half your image on it. But something about his voice—about the way he leaned in, too familiar—itched under your skin.

"I'm good," you said lightly, shifting your weight. "Let’s just—"

"C'mon, you're Thanatos’ lead singer," he laughed. "Give us that rockstar attitude."

Before you could bite back, another voice cut through the set.

"She said she’s good."

The room stilled.

Dimitri hadn't spoken all day. He never did. He wasn’t part of the band, wasn’t part of anything, really. Just a shadow in the background. Watching. Judging. A wall of Russian indifference wrapped in a leather jacket.

Now, though—he was looking straight at the photographer. Arms crossed, expression blank. And yet, the air felt heavier, sharper.

The photographer chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, man, just doing my job—"

"Then do it properly." Dimitri’s voice was smooth, deliberate. Cold. A warning.

Silence. The photographer adjusted his camera, suddenly very interested in his settings.

You turned, studying Dimitri. He was already looking away, back to his usual stillness, like he hadn’t just sent a grown man into retreat with nothing but a few words.