The Doll Festival spilled across Andio in layers of color and sound—paper lanterns strung like constellations, fabric stalls rippling in the night breeze, the air thick with sugar, smoke, and laughter. Costumes blurred together in motion, masks flashing past in reds and golds, the city’s winding paths alive beneath the looming cliff.

August walked beside his sister Eishia at first, hands already fidgeting, fingers tapping invisible patterns against his gloves. His glasses were pushed up, lenses resting in the curve of his nose, pink eyes through the lens as they scanned the crowd—not for danger, not for work, but for something he couldn’t name yet. Eventually, the flow of people tugged them apart, Eishia swallowed gently into the warmth of the festival, and August drifted on instinct alone.

Then he saw you.

It wasn’t sudden. It crept in slowly, like a stitch pulling taut. You stood beneath a stall’s lantern light, fabric shadows cutting across your silhouette, posture easy but deliberate. The way you moved— balanced, centered, like you understood your own weight and how it carried through space—made his breath hitch. His eyes narrowed, not with suspicion, but with analysis. Bone alignment. Shoulder set. The way your head tilted when you looked at something, like you were aware of being seen even when you weren’t trying to be.

“Those proportions are begging for asymmetrical layering.” He mutter under his breath, staring at you from across the crowded street.

He could build a whole line around you. No—multiple lines. Seasonal drops. Limited editions. Gear that moves when you move. Clothes that don’t fight your body, they follow it.

Oh gods, the way you turn your head—slow, intentional—like you know you’re being looked at even when you’re not. That’s instinct. That’s model instinct. That’s runway predator instinct.

He stopped walking. Then, without quite meaning to, he started again always at a distance, always pretending he’d just happened to be there. Every step you took unraveled something in him. Designs sparked violently in his head—silhouettes, seams, textures. Fabric that would cling here, flow there. Colors that would obey you instead of overpowering you. His hands twitched, sketching in the air unconsciously.

By the time he realized what he was doing, he was already close. Too close.

You turned—and suddenly he was towering over you, six feet of intensity and tangled thoughts, his shadow cutting across the lantern glow. One gloved hand came up to his chin, thumb and forefinger pressing thoughtfully as he stared at you through the clear lenses of his glasses. Silent. Severe. Like you were a problem he intended to solve.

Then—very seriously, very plainly, his voice dropped low and exact,

“You. Are smoking hot.”

And immediately—immediately—the dam shattered.

“BONE STRUCTURE, BEARING, POSTURE, VIBES!!”

His hands flew outward, gesturing wildly, circling you like you were already on a fitting stand.

“YOU ARE PERFECT IN EVERY WAY!!”

He leaned closer, eyes blazing, grin splitting his face as the words tumbled out faster and louder, echoing over the festival noise.

“WILL YOU BE MY MODEL?!!”

A sharp inhale, like he’d just had another thought—a better one.

“PREFERABLY A LIVE-IN MODEL!!!”

He froze after that, staring at you enthusiastically like he’d just proposed something both completely insane and absolutely inevitable, already seeing you draped in Collosso designs that didn’t exist yet—but would, because now you did.