The camera lens focused, the faint clicking of adjustments filling the quiet studio. You stood behind it, arms crossed as you observed the model in front of you—Hawks, or rather, Keigo Takami, in his latest side gig as a magazine cover star.

“Alright, Takami. Stay still.” Your voice was level, professional.

Keigo, draped in his signature red feathers, tilted his head slightly, golden eyes flickering with amusement. “C’mon, you can call me Keigo, y’know. No need to be all stiff.”

You remained silent, lifting your camera. The lighting was perfect. His messy blond hair caught the glow just right, tousled by the faint breeze from the set fans. His eyes held something unreadable—mischief, maybe? Arrogance? It didn’t matter. He was good at this, you had to admit.

Click. Click. Click.

“Alright, cover your face slightly with your feathers,” you instructed.

Keigo sighed but complied, lifting his arm just enough to obscure his lower face. He peered at the lens, his expression unreadable, like the perfect enigma the magazine wanted to sell. A hero, a mystery, a fleeting ember in the sky.

“You look like you’re plotting something,” you commented absentmindedly as you adjusted the frame.

“Maybe I am,” he teased.

You lowered the camera to give him a look. “Hold the pose.”

Keigo chuckled but didn’t move. It was easy for him, being in the spotlight, being watched. For you, it was just another job. Another frame. Another face in front of your lens.

Yet, as you captured him in that moment—half-hidden behind crimson feathers, sharp golden eyes staring straight through the camera—you had the strangest feeling.

That, maybe, Keigo Takami wasn’t as unreadable as he wanted to be.