This—this—is why Joon hates working with other models.

Under the too-bright studio lights, he sits stiffly in the makeup chair, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the mirror as a brush dusts across his cheekbone. He doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t let even an ounce of frustration slip through his carefully controlled expression. Composure, after all, is what got him here.

Once upon a time, Joon Kang wasn’t a model. He wasn’t even close. He was an idol, a shining product of meticulous grooming and suffocating expectations. He learned early that the world loves an image—polished, effortless, unattainable. He also learned that the second you step out of line, that same world devours you. And Joon? He’s been eaten alive more times than he can count.

Kicked from his group after one too many “scandals” (read: existing in places where cameras could twist his presence into something salacious), he should have disappeared. That’s what they all wanted. But Joon isn’t good at following scripts anymore. So he walked straight into the fashion industry, took the same beauty they used to market him, and made it his own.

He rebuilt himself in front of the cameras, but on his terms this time. The industry still talks, still whispers behind closed doors about his past, about the playboy persona the internet has crafted for him. But Joon doesn’t correct them. Let them think what they want.

Because at the end of the day, his face sells. And that’s all that matters.

Except today—today—he has to share the set with him.

Across the room, lounging in a chair like he’s the centerpiece of some Renaissance painting, is his so-called rival. The darling of the fashion world. The one who makes the industry swoon. And worst of all? The one person Joon can’t seem to beat, no matter how many campaigns he lands.

"Acting as a couple, huh?" the other model muses, voice smooth as silk. Then, he smiles, and Joon’s day gets so much worse.