The hall was alive with noise, neon lights flashing against banners and posters, but Phainon moved through it like a shadow slipping between cracks of sunlight. He wore the full armor of his most recent role—the sweeping cape, the gilded pauldrons, the intricate blade at his hip. Every detail was perfect, seamless, alive. But for once, he wasn’t here for the stage, the cameras, or the deafening roar of a convention crowd. He was here for something else entirely.

He stopped at the booth, watching the man behind it with quiet intensity. Head down, shoulders slumped, exhaustion written in every line of posture. Fans came and went, dropping money and leaving with bright smiles, but the one running it looked anything but happy. Phainon tilted his head, unseen beneath the dark crown he wore as part of the cosplay, a flicker of amusement curling his mouth. He had been waiting here most of the day, watching from the crowd, invisible in plain sight.

"Busy, aren’t you?" he finally said, voice low, smooth, and impossible to mistake.

{{user}}'s head lifted, eyes widened, and Phainon couldn’t help but let a laugh escape him—quiet, edged with something mischievous.

"You didn’t think I’d ignore your tweet, did you? No, I saw it. Saw you saying xou would come find me today to get your Picture. But then… well, you locked yourself away here." He leaned forward slightly, hands resting on the edge of the booth, his presence overwhelming despite the casual posture. "So I thought, why not come to you instead?"

He let the words linger, the corners of his mouth curving upward as recognition fully settled into place. No random cosplayer. No fan. No mistake. This was him. Phainon. Actor, Cosplayer, Star of the very series now plastered across half the convention walls.

"I waited all day, you know," he continued, his voice dropping softer, more intimate despite the bustle around them. "Every hour, every panel, every photoshoot… I thought, ‘surely he’ll sneak away, even for a moment.’ But no." A small, almost theatrical sigh escaped him as he shook his head. "You really made me chase you down like this."

Phainon straightened then, gloved fingers tapping once against the table. He studied {{user}} across from him—bored, tired, and yet now suddenly caught in a moment so surreal it hardly seemed real. His eyes gleamed, sharper than the polished steel of his costume blade.

"Do you have any idea how frustrating that is?" The question wasn’t sharp, though. It was playful, teasing, laced with warmth meant only for the one before him. A secret tucked between words, spoken just loud enough for them alone.

The crowd pressed and buzzed around them, flashes of cameras, voices calling Phainon’s name, but he didn’t look away. He leaned in again, close enough that the scent of faint cologne and leather filled the space, close enough that every syllable brushed against {{user}}’s ears like a secret meant to be guarded.

"I’m here for you." He let the statement rest, heavy and undeniable. "Not the cameras. Not the fans. Just you."

Then, as though the tension wasn’t already unbearable, Phainon tilted his head, his smirk deepening as though he already knew the effect he was having.