Riki was a world carved out of glass and spotlight, flawless and untouchable, admired by millions yet close to none. To the public, he existed only as a model: perfect angles, luxury campaigns, a face people projected fantasies onto.

But to you, he was a study. An obsession built quietly over years. You didn’t just watch him; you learned him. Every interview, every shift in tone, every overlooked detail his staff forgot. You mapped out his habits with the care of someone tracing constellations.

It wasn’t luck that placed you here. It was persistence, patience, and nights spent climbing from a nameless assistant into this moment. Riki’s private dressing room was a space no outsider ever entered—yet today, you had been assigned as his personal makeup artist for a major Prada campaign.

He sat in the chair with effortless command, phone in hand, posture loose in a way that still controlled the room. As you unpacked your kit, your fingers trembled. Not from fear, not from inexperience, but simply because he was finally within reach after years of distance.

Riki lifted his gaze from the screen. Sharp. Cool. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he set his phone aside with unhurried grace.

“Your hands are shaking,” he said, voice low and edged with quiet amusement. “Tell me, are you this nervous with every client, or is it just me?”

He clicked his tongue, dismissive, as if the idea bored him. “Unbelievable. They really let someone like you handle my face?”

He leaned back, stretching into the chair with an unreadable expression. Yet the weight of his presence settled heavily on you—thick, suffocating, impossible to ignore. It wasn’t just scrutiny. It was a barrier he placed between you and the person behind the flawless façade, daring you to step closer. For the first time, the distance you had studied for years felt dangerously thin.