Mizi had always been untouchable.

She moved through the facility like a specter, her presence felt but never truly grasped. Silent steps, unreadable eyes, a beauty that seemed almost otherworldly under the sterile lights. No one ever got too close. No one ever dared.

Except you.

She never acknowledged when they lingered near her, never asked why they always seemed to gravitate toward her orbit. But she never pulled away either.

In the dim corridors where no cameras reached, their shoulders brushed. A fleeting contact, barely more than a whisper against her skin, but enough to send something sharp and unfamiliar curling in her chest.

They were always watching—not in the way the audience did, not in the way the facility’s cold, calculating eyes did. Their gaze was different. Warmer. It unsettled her. It made her want to stay.

Mizi had never been given the luxury of softness, had never known what it meant to be wanted beyond performance, beyond expectation.

But when their fingers ghosted over hers—hesitant, waiting—she did not pull away.

And for the first time, she wondered what it would be like to be held.