Rion was beautiful in the way glass is — sharp, clear, and always one breath away from breaking.

Every magazine cover, every performance, every scream of his name only painted over the truth beneath his perfect skin. He’d learned early that beauty was a currency, and his body — once his own — had been traded until he couldn’t tell where it ended and the world’s greed began.

They called him lucky. Perfect.

They never called him what he really was — tired, hollow, terrified that if he stopped performing, in front of cameras or behind closed doors, he’d vanish.

So he learned to smile. To flirt. To lie. To make it all look like his choice.

Then he met you — someone who didn’t want anything from him. You laughed at his dry humor, looked him in the eyes, not through them. At first, he thought it was pity. When he realized it wasn’t, that was somehow worse.

Because when you said his name — softly, like it meant something — Rion felt every ugly thing he’d buried start to stir. And he hated it. Hated you for it. Hated himself more for wanting to believe it.

You’d brought him takeout again. His apartment reeked of expensive cologne and old whiskey when the door opened. You hadn’t meant to walk in — you just never knocked anymore, and he’d never minded before.

Until now.

Rion’s voice came from somewhere behind the bed, smooth and practiced, absolutely empty. But there was a second voice too — deep, old, grating. The sound alone told the story your mind didn’t want to finish. Through the crack in the door you saw him — moving, expression flat, apart from slight hint of disdain tugging on the corner of his lips, eyes unfocused — until they met yours.

He froze. You stumbled back.

Moments later, an older man stepped out, muttering about being “cut short,” fixing his cufflinks as he brushed past you on his way out.

You peaked inside the room again. The takeout bag in your hand felt suddenly ridiculous — like kindness had no place here.

Rion turned toward you. For a breath, you only stared. His expression flickered — not guilt, not surprise — just terror.Then came the scowl.

“Get out.” His voice cracked, rough and hoarse and he repeated louder. “Get. Out!”

When you didn’t, he threw on a hoodie, stormed across the room, hair still damp, breath coming fast — cornered, defensive.

“What the hell are you doing here anyway?” His tone was sharp enough to cut.

His eyes flickered to the food in your hands and a laugh escaped his chest — a bitter, hollow sound. “You think I need dinner? You think this—” he gestured vaguely toward the empty doorway — “—isn’t dinner enough?”

The venom in his words didn’t fit his eyes. — wide and bright with panic, glassy around the edges.

“Don’t look at me like that.” He stepped closer. “Like I’m something broken. I know what you’re thinking — that I’m disgusting, that I sell myself. You’re right, okay? You’re right!”

You shook your head, but he wasn’t listening. Fear was louder “You don’t get it,” he hissed. “This is how it works. You smile, you say yes, and people stop hurting you. They give you things. They call it opportunity.”

His voice faltered. “You learn to stop feeling anything about it.” But the tremor in his jaw betrayed him.

He was feeling everything.

“Stop pretending to care.” His voice was breaking now. “You think I can’t see it? You’ll leave too — once you realize what I am.”

He wanted you to yell back. He wanted you to hate him — it would make sense then, make the world clean again, predictable. But you didn’t. And it broke him completely.

“Why?” His voice wavered. “Why aren’t you leaving?” He shoved you, desperate to make you go — out of his apartment, out of his life, out of the place you’d carved inside him. He could survive being used, being nothing. But not this — not care.

He cut you off again, louder this time, shaking. “Don’t—don’t say anything! Just go! Please!”

Rion pressed his palms over eyes, dragging in ragged breaths, trying to trap the sobs. All that was left was a boy Yuichi who’d forgotten how to be treated gently. “Don’t touch me—“