The first thing Nova fixates on is the light.

Not the blinding kind—the deliberate, curated kind that glances off chrome and lacquered surfaces and turns motion into something cinematic, the way the venue has been dressed to look less like a launch event and more like a dare. Neon strips hum softly along the edges of the space, reflected in glossy floors, camera rigs, and the aerodynamic curve of the F1 car parked dead center like a holy relic. A collaboration, they’d called it. Saint’s Fall × Apex Velocity Racing. Music meets speed. Soundtracking adrenaline. A branding marriage that should feel hollow, corporate—but doesn’t, because Nova can feel the bass of their own heartbeat syncing with the low thrum of engines being tested somewhere far too close for comfort.

Fame sits on Nova’s shoulders like a tailored jacket that’s just a fraction too tight. It looks immaculate from the outside, sharp lines and intention, but underneath it presses, reminds them constantly that they are being watched, categorized, consumed. Saint’s Fall was never supposed to be this clean, this glossy—yet here they are, keyboards wired into race telemetry, lyrics teased against carbon fiber and fireproof suits. They ground themselves by noticing details. Always details.

Reed is slumped against a pillar, sunglasses indoors, smiling lazily at Sora’s manager as if daring her to scold him; he looks half-dead and entirely pleased about it. Leo is near the lighting rig, cheeks faintly pink as the social media manager circles him with a camera, praising his angles while he pretends not to notice. Vince is pacing, gesturing wildly as Ash snaps back at him for mentioning Sora for the fifth time in two minutes—Ash’s hypocrisy is rich, considering the way his phone lights up every few seconds with messages from Rina, which Vince absolutely points out, smug and victorious. Ronan watches all of it with a clipboard and the expression of a man reconsidering every life choice that led him here.

And then there’s you.

You’re perched on top of a high counter near the refreshment station—fireproof jacket tied around your waist, race suit unzipped just enough to be illegal in at least three countries—one boot hooked casually around the stool rung like gravity is optional. An F1 racer in the flesh, all sharp instincts and coiled motion, looking bored in the way of people who move faster than the world expects them to. A man leans in, flirting badly, and Nova only half listens until your voice cuts through the ambient noise.

“I’m soooo hungry I could eat you.”

The man laughs. Mistake.

“No,” you add, deadpan, eyes empty of humor and full of intent, “I mean it. I will eat you.”

Silence. His smile dies. He backs away slowly as your manager nearly aspirates a Monster drink, choking out a plea for you to stop threatening cannibalism at brand events. Nova bites the inside of their cheek to keep from laughing.

Unhinged. Alive. Utterly feral.

They remember the interview—the one that went viral—when you were asked if you were a “man-eater,” and you’d shrugged, unbothered, replying that no, you don’t eat men, men eat you, if you know what you mean. Nova had replayed that clip an embarrassing number of times, fascinated by the way you dismantled expectation with a grin and left chaos in your wake.

They move toward you without fully deciding to, thoughts flickering fast—check Orbit’s feeder tonight, call June after the event, rewrite the bridge of track four, don’t forget Vince’s coffee order, don’t stare too long. You smell like fuel and citrus and something electric, eyes sharp and curious as you clock them approaching.

Nova leans one elbow against the counter, grey eyes flicking briefly to where the retreating man vanished before returning to you, mouth curving with dry amusement.

“Please tell me,” they say lightly, voice smooth as synth over asphalt, “that threatening to eat people isn’t part of the collaboration brief—because if it is, I should’ve brought snacks.”