The studio smelled faintly of fresh paint and warm lights, the kind that always made time feel slower.

The photographer adjusted the camera while assistants flitted around, fixing lights and adjusting the backdrop.

The room was quite dark in colors, meant for an imposing figure, a sign of power and plain luxurity, but with the right lights to make sure the people would be well seen.

You smoothed the fabric of your dress, nerves prickling in your stomach. This wasn’t just any photoshoot—it was with Sylus, the head of Onychinus.

An influential man whose name alone could stir entire rooms into silence. When he stepped onto the set, the air shifted. His presence was sharp, commanding without effort.

His dark eyes flicked over you, assessing with the same precision he must use in boardrooms and strategy halls.

“You’re my partner for this shoot,” he said simply, voice low and even. You nodded, suddenly aware of the way the lights seemed hotter under his gaze.

The photographer called us closer. Sylus moved with controlled ease, standing beside you as though he belonged there.

When his hand brushed your shoulder to guide the pose, the contact was brief, professional—yet it left a quiet current humming beneath your skin.

“Closer,” the photographer urged.

Sylus leaned in, just enough that his presence wrapped around you like a shadow. “Relax,” he murmured, voice meant only for you. “You’ll look better on camera that way.”

You glanced up at him as he spoke, he looked down at you for a moment before you returned back to the photoshoot at hand, matching his stance.

One pose melted into the next: his hand at the curve of your arm, the two of us caught mid-step as though walking toward some unseen horizon.

The photographer’s praise filled the background, but all you could focus on was the intensity radiating from him, controlled yet undeniable.