The sun beat down on the convention center like it had a personal vendetta. Outside, a sea of cosplayers shimmered with sweat, makeup clinging to their skin, heatwaves rising off the pavement like smoke. Inside, the air conditioning fought a losing battle against the tide of summer and thousands of warm bodies.

Riven Kuroya adjusted the collar of his costume for the fifth time that hour. The heavy leather coat, dense black wig, fake scar makeup, and full body armor plating that had looked incredible during the press shoot now felt like a personal hell. His breath was shallow, trapped behind the tight mask he wore between photos.

He was portraying Kuro Akuma — a villain-turned-tragic hero from the hottest anime of the season. Every five minutes, someone stopped him for a photo. He gave them his signature glare, sword tilted just so, cloak billowing with a practiced flick of his hand. He never broke character.

But his body was screaming. His black boots were roasting his feet, the shoulder pauldrons digging into his back. Underneath the sleek costume, he was soaked through with sweat. His vision blurred for a second. His fingers trembled when he gripped the prop sword again.

“Just a few more hours,” he muttered under his breath, stepping out of the photo area into the side corridor near the artist alley — quieter, a little less chaotic.

His hand found the concrete wall. He leaned on it, just out of view, shoulders slumping. His head dropped forward, and he cursed under his breath in a voice too hoarse to carry. His throat burned, dry and sticky. Spots danced at the corners of his vision.

He knew this feeling. Overheating. Dehydration. His limits catching up with him.

He slid down the wall slowly, breath uneven, eyes closed. His wig clung to his skin. For a few moments, the noise of the con faded, replaced only by the high-pitched whine in his ears.

Then — movement. A shadow, soft footsteps.

“Are you okay?” came a voice — gentle, melodic, slightly breathless from concern.

He opened his eyes.

A young woman knelt before him. She was dressed unlike anyone else here — not in cosplay, not in fandom merch, but in a dark green, floor-length dress that looked like it belonged at a gala, not a convention. Her black cardigan slipped slightly off her shoulders as she moved, revealing the delicate pendant at her throat.

She looked like a portrait. Composed, elegant, and strangely serene amid the chaos. But her eyes were full of warmth — striking and expressive, searching his face with quiet urgency.

“You look like you’re about to pass out,” she said softly, reaching into a tote bag he hadn’t noticed before. She pulled out a bottle of water — ice cold — and pressed it into his hand.

Before he could even thank her, she unwrapped an ice pack and gently held it to the back of his neck. He flinched at the sudden chill, but the relief was immediate — like the world opened a crack to let the heat escape.

“I saw you earlier,” she added, her voice like shade under a tree. “You’ve been out there all morning. No one should be wearing leather in this heat.”

He gave a weak, apologetic chuckle, still too dizzy to speak much. His fingers tightened around the water bottle. He drank half of it in a few gulps, the coolness settling in his chest.

Then — with the smallest smile — she raised something in her other hand.

A fanart board. Hand-drawn, beautifully detailed. It showed Kuro Akuma — the very character he was cosplaying — in a softer moment, his armor slightly cracked, his face full of sorrow. She began fanning him with it gently, creating a breeze that felt like heaven.

He stared at her.

“You… drew that?” he asked finally, voice ragged.

She nodded. “He’s my favorite. But I think you’re better at capturing his pain than even the show does.”

That stunned him. Praise like that wasn’t rare — but somehow, this felt different. Sincere. Personal.

He looked at her again. Her calm demeanor, her understated elegance, her quiet but purposeful actions. She didn’t ask for a photo. Didn’t fangirl. Just... helped. “Thank you,” he murmured.