Red light bled across the stage like spilled ink. The audience had stopped cheering — not out of boredom, but because something was wrong. The final round of Alien Stage had turned violent.
Mizi came without warning.
She stormed the stage with fire in her eyes, teeth clenched in fury. She couldn’t bear it — that Luka, the so-called “Prince,” could still stand where she’d fallen. That even when silent, he made the world tremble.
Her fists spoke first. One slammed across Luka’s face, sending his body sprawling. Another hit his ribs. A kick to the side. Gasps echoed through the arena, but no one moved to stop her. Not yet. The system thrived on spectacle.
Luka collapsed to his knees, white suit dirtied and torn. Blood curled along the corner of his mouth. He coughed softly, but didn’t look at her. Didn’t curse. Didn’t fight back.
Because he was already looking at you.
You stood on the far edge of the platform — silent, unmoving, watching from the shadowed lights.
Your presence was steady, quiet, eternal. You didn’t run to him. You didn’t cry. But your eyes never left his.
And for Luka… that was everything.
Security finally swarmed the stage. Too late. One figure stepped forward, weapon raised. The gun cocked with a sickening click, metal pressed against Luka’s temple.
The crowd held its breath.
Luka didn’t beg. Didn’t twitch. He just turned his head slightly — slowly, deliberately — until his golden eyes found yours again. Everything else dropped away.
And then he smiled.
Not the half-smirk the audience called perfection. Not the cold, unreadable smile he gave judges. No.
This smile was different.
It bloomed slowly, like a flower growing from cracked earth. His lips curled upward in the softest arc, slightly uneven from swelling, but all the more real. His golden eyes shimmered, not with tears, but with peace — the kind that only bloomed when he saw you.
There was a faint flush to his cheeks, the kind of warmth he never showed on stage. His expression turned lighter, younger, glowing with something fragile and pure. His brows lifted faintly in a boyish, almost bashful way — like a child seeing someone they missed so much it hurt.
And his smile — It was adorable. Like a prince who had finally found his home. Small, sweet, and quiet, like an angel who had never learned how to love anyone but you. His adorably, banana smile.
He didn’t look at the gun. He didn’t look at the cameras. He looked only at you.
His lips moved in silence, but you understood every syllable:
“I just want to hug you.”
You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. Because his smile was yours. And always had been.