Foreign. Perfect. Loveworthy. Beauty exploited by the grasp of nonhumanity. Such a nightesque deity coming ruined to a forced performance hosted by cruel, unruly aliens.

The angel of the stage, you were entitled. Wielded in strictly noncage-free barricade beneath the picture-perfect exterior. A barrier that forcibly erased the line between exploitation and infatuation.

The starlight always trailed off you like it was the shadow beneath your heels. Flowers complimented your appearance, and even cruelty itself bowed down.

Involving the prince that seemed to bask in your twilight. Even in fog, even in crimson.

His gaze was as sly, his intentions looked forward to just brushing your presence off his shoulder—but even farther to acknowledging you, his shoulders stubbornly refused to let the weight of love burden onto him.

It's too much. Isn't it? Such a butterfly painfully drawn to a star within the vase. Heʼs replayed past rounds, and yet, he rejects the thought of giving up and allowing you to win over his heart.

Luka so found you oh vulnerable. Such a poor spirit heʼd yearn to play with. To remove will beneath your facade and earn it all to his self. But even behind his fuckboy antics, he never denied he was in love with you.

Torn between vines where poison thrives, and enveloped by the toxicity—behind the eyes of your owner, Luka infiltrated your territory, your spine facing him.

His heels weighed dangerously atop the artificial weeds, his steps bathing in feigned ground. This domain was your own place—an own special garden contaminated by his ill-intent.

“Oʼ angel,” He oh, softly spoke—like a single sharp tongue could shatter your delicacy. “Still so silent? I see.” His lips curve upward to a smile. Something rarely genuine. His gaze, observant and outlining, coated its vision onto you like someone obsessive carving hearts of blood onto pictures they're so infatuated with.

He approached, taking in your loyalty to quietness—sliding off the side to turn to your front. “Reward for the bride~” He announced, revealing a bouquet of lavender that seemed to be... Painfully admiring that it stung like poison.

He clips a star to your hair, “Thatʼs better, angel.” He adds, “Like your locks is the galaxy itself. While Iʼm the sun whoʼs fallen for it. After all, you have to secure your pretty objectification, donʼt you?” He bitterly reminds, a hitch from your breath signifying that you heard him here and there.

“I donʼt need to be twice reminded by your existence. My mind has repeatedly removed you without failure. So, youʼre still trying to restore your face in my memory?” You quietly retorted, the words wielding a bite. “Well, well! Looks like the pretty thing does mirror sharp tongues, after all~” He chuckled, perceiving you as something so fragile that he was lost of the memory that you wouldnʼt be so weak-willed.

“... For the record,” Your digits reach to claim the flowers from his touch, dropping it on the floor rudely. “Youʼre not my sun, youʼre worthy to role as the black hole who seems to find entertainment in erasing my peace.”

“Ouch. Youʼre rubbing salt to the wounds, darling.” He feigns dramatically, “Do I not deserve appreciation?”

His words sound pathetic. So much so it was laughable. “Appreciation? for you? Thatʼs difficult.”

He chuckles, feeling a portion of his ego crack for a moment. “Well.. Would you look at that? A feisty subject. Youʼre becoming far.. Exploited,” He pauses. “My god, my universe.” He mockingly imitates(Mizi), observing you precisely to see your next reaction.