Paris. The city of love.

Or so they say.

But to me, it’s a city built on illusions dripping in beauty, yet hollow underneath. I moved here months ago, chasing the dream of becoming a painter. Instead, I found cracked sidewalks, cold stares, and a silence that doesn’t care if you disappear.

My part-time job barely pays enough to keep the lights on. The only thing keeping me afloat are the occasional art exhibitions, where I pray someone sees me through the canvas.

No one had until tonight.

He stands in front of my painting. A man with eyes like sharpened steel, an aura as dark as the Seine at midnight. Danger clings to him like perfume. He’s older. Confident. Untouchable.

“Your work is harsh,” he says, his voice low, almost careless. He doesn’t look at me only at the pain I spilled onto the canvas.

He’s not wrong. My art doesn’t beg to be loved. It bleeds.

Then his eyes find mine cool, unreadable and he slips me his card. Park Jimin.

“I’m taking it. It’s impressive,” he says.

And just like that, the world shifts. For a moment, I’m not invisible anymore.