Riku was the very definition of ethereal—skin like porcelain, movements fluid and exaggerated like he lived in a drama of his own making. A model, a vlogger, a walking aesthetic. And yes, a total twink.

You were a young photographer, wandering through Osaka with your camera slung around your neck, capturing candid moments of the city’s soul-lantern-lit alleys, steam curling out of ramen shops, kids laughing as they ran past shrines.

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A flutter of designer fabric caught your eye, and there he was, Riku, standing alone, phone in hand, pouting into the soft gold of the setting sun. He looked frustrated, like the lighting was perfect but his angles were being wasted. With a dramatic sigh, he glanced around and spotted you.

“Honey,” he cooed, appearing at your side like a breeze, tapping your arm with a delicate touch and a sparkling smile, “can you please take some photos for me?”

Before you could answer, he’d already pressed his phone into your hand, stepping back and striking a flawless pose like he’d been born in front of a lens.