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!! DISCLAIMER !!
This roleplay will likely cover sensitive topics.
I do not condone any toxic or unhealthy behaviors that may be portrayed here.

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Picture (not-so) Perfect
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"Living in the state of dreaming"

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PRELUDE
"The Renaissance"

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"And as the last of the sunlight dips below the horizon, the sky will be illuminated by the shimmer of the moon and stars.
But only for a while; for when the sun inevitably rises in the morn', the chorus of the songbird will sound once more."

The large windows of the penthouse office offered a stunning view of the New York City skyline, the warm glow of the setting sun casting a rich amber hue across the room. Inside, Callistus sat at his desk, his calloused hands tightly gripping a framed photo of his daughter. His thumb gently caressed her cheek, a small smile playing on his lips as her infectious laughter manifested in his mind. As he examined the photo, he couldn't help but think about how much her smile had influenced his decision to take a gamble, pouring all of his resources into buying and renovating a struggling company. The fashion industry hadn't ever been a career path he'd considered before - if he were to be honest. However, witnessing his daughter's feverish passion, as well as her rapid advancement in her career as a child model, Callistus knew he couldn't let it slip away when the opportunity arose. While he knew his daughter was too young to understand the impact she had on his decision, he was certain that she had a bright future ahead of her. He was determined to provide a better future for his daughter and for generations to come.

Callistus is brought back from his thoughts when a series of purposeful knocks sound from the heavy oak door of the office, prompting him to quickly straighten himself as he rises from the plush leather seat. He takes a deep breath, preparing himself for the meeting ahead. The door swings open - the hinges squealing under its weight - and he is greeted by his anticipated guest, clad in a luxurious black fur-trimmed coat, a clear display of their wealth and status. As they entered the office, a hand elegantly swept back their curly midnight locks, revealing their youthful face adorned with a coy smile that fills Callistus with a sense of familiarity, but with an underlying hint of unease, also. After all, he knows this man well, but it's been a while since they last met.

“Good evening, Regrator. I’m glad you could make it on such short notice,” welcomes Callistus, offering up the seat on the other side of his desk, his formality, however, earning him an amused chuckle.

“Callistus - my dear friend - you need not keep calling me by that title; Pantalone will suffice.”

The director watches Pantalone as he calmly glides from the door towards him, the pair exchanging pleasantries before settling into their seats. Contrary to Callistus, who was raised in a privileged household, Pantalone's childhood was marked by poverty and a lack of basic opportunities and advantages that others enjoyed. By some stroke of luck, Pantalone was able to break free from this situation, and through years of tireless effort and unwavering commitment, he has risen to become a prominent financier with investments in numerous multinational companies. This was no small feat for someone who had grown up with nothing, and it was a testament to Pantalone's strong will and determination to succeed.

"I must admit, your sudden request for my company had taken me by surprise," Pantalone says, his nonchalant voice laced with just a touch of amusement. He leans back in his chair, interlocking his fingers as his amethyst eyes narrow into a piercing gaze, searching for the reason behind Callistus' summoning. The energy in the room shifts, becoming charged with conspiracy. "Yet... I find myself feeling all the more intrigued," Pantalone continues. The air thickens with tension as the two characters silently engage in a subtle power play: both fighting to read each other's motives. "I can see that the agency has flourished under your influence. So tell me: what's on your mind?"

Callistus nods in agreement at Pantalone's attempt to diffuse the suspense, his sharp gaze fixed on Pantalone as he clears his throat. "It is," he says, his tone firm and determined. "However, I believe it's time for the agency to see some bigger changes." His words vibrate with intensity, conveying his deep passion for the subject at hand. His alluring dark eyes flicker with a mix of admiration and challenge as he continues, "I have great respect for you, Pantalone, and I requested your company this evening because I've always valued your opinion and wanted to hear your thoughts about my ideas regarding the future of the agency."

However, Pantalone's expression remained still, save for a subtle arch of his eyebrow. He listened intently, his silence speaking volumes to Callistus. Without uttering a single word, Pantalone gave the go-ahead for Callistus to continue.
"Illusion Studios has a constant influx of clients, though most of them are short-lasting. They complete a few projects with us before moving on to the next agency after securing their name," Callistus explains, his face contorting in a mixture of frustration and disappointment. "As a father, it fills me with immense pride to witness their soaring achievements, especially knowing that Illusion Studios has played a part in helping them get there. But as a director, it's a struggle to keep up with the constant turnover of talent and the depletion of our resources. If Illusion Studios is to have a future, at all, I need to prioritize its needs, starting now. That's why I propose the idea of curating a select, permanent group of models. This way, we can devote our attention and resources to these chosen few, creating a dependable and illustrious roster of models."

Pantalone's countenance remained neutral as Callistus laid out his plan for the future of the agency. He hums, taking a moment to consider the proposal, his mind already calculating the potential risks and rewards. While it was a bold move, it was also a necessary one.

"Your idea is quite intriguing, indeed," Pantalone finally spoke up, his voice measured and thoughtful. "It would certainly allow you to focus on quality over quantity. A select group of models, hand-picked and nurtured by Illusion Studios. It's a bold move; However, you must also consider the potential backlash from those who have previously worked with you. It could be seen as a betrayal." Callistus nodded, understanding Pantalone's concern. "Of course... that's easier said than done, but I whole-heartedly believe this could be a game-changer for Illusion Studios."

"I do not doubt that there will be some backlash," Callistus responds, his tone resolute, "But I believe that the end result will speak for itself. We will be able to create a lasting legacy, one that is not just about numbers and quick success, but about building a strong foundation for the future."

Pantalone nods, the corners of his lips curling into a sly grin, impressed by Callistus' determination.

"You make a compelling argument, Director," he purrs, "I am certain that with your leadership and the support of the team, Illusion Studios will continue to thrive and evolve. And, may I add, your proposal has piqued my... personal interest." Pantalone shifts in his seat, ensuring that Callistus' attention is completely engaged, "I want to make you an offer. For a mere fifteen percent of Illusion Studios, I'm willing to provide funds and other resources to support your project. Keep in mind, that if I didn't believe Illusion Studios didn't have the potential to make it, I wouldn't still be sat here right now."

Callistus' mind raced as he considered Pantalone's offer. While he had been hesitant to accept any outside funding, he couldn't deny the potential benefits of having a partner like Pantalone. With his vast resources and connections, Illusion Studios would surely flourish. The possibilities were endless, and Callistus couldn't help but feel hopeful at the thought. He glanced back at Pantalone, who was still watching him with a calm expression.

"I am honored by your offer," Callistus says, his voice betraying his excitement. "And I am confident that with your support, Illusion Studios will reach new heights."

Pantalone leans forward, his eyes glinting with a mix of artifice and satisfaction. "Excellent! I'm glad we could come to an agreement. I'll send you the contract to finalize this, tomorrow. In the meantime, I look forward to seeing your plan in action, Director."

The two men locked eyes as they firmly grasped each other's hands. Callistus could feel the weight of the moment in the firmness of the handshake. The deal was sealed, but he had no idea what he had just gotten himself into. Unbeknownst to Callistus, he had just made a deal with the devil. One wrong move and everything he had worked towards could crumble beneath him. The room seemed to grow colder as the realization that something seemed off dawned on him. He had been blinded by ambition and now he was trapped.

[ 1488 words ]

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XX. INTRODUCTION
"And it's all Smoke and Mirrors"

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Arc Aim: A basic introduction of present characters !

Setting; Date: NYC, USA; January !

Starting Point(s):

- ACEDIA and the models are out of the studio for a photoshoot; Opportunity to showcase character styles here !
- GOSSIP is moving into Illusion Studios / the House of Illusions, with the assistance of GUILE !

A marvelous skyscraper stood before Dakota as she approached the doors of Illusion Studios. Every nook and cranny screamed wealth and perfection. Framed pictures of models lined the lobby, all seemed to be deliberately placed and organized. Even though it was quite early in the morning-- at least according to Dakota's standards, the lobby was bustling with employees. The sight should be overwhelming, a sign of the new life style that she was about to face, but surprisingly, Dakota found that she was excited. She had been waiting for an opportunity like this, and after years of hard work, she finally made it. All the connections she had to make, and all the hours she put into modeling. There were multiple nights where she collapsed from exhaustion. But in her humble opinion, it was all worth it, if it meant getting into the House of Illusions.

She spots movement in the corner of her eye, a flock of aspiring models eyes her from a distance with a hint of jealousy upon their faces. Ah, so they heard about me being hired. Word must spread fast around here. A small part of Dakota was tempted to gloat, but she knew it wouldn't be a good look for her, especially considering the fact that she was going to be welcomed by the Dezerae Li. So instead, Dakota fixes a kind smile on her face, waving towards the group before dropping her hand to her side. It took everything she had to not cross her arms, a desperate attempt to soothe her nerves... Okay, maybe she was a bit nervous.

Breathing out a held breath, Dakota adjusts her stance and returns her gaze towards the pictures. She had no reason to be nervous, afterall, she was chosen over all the other applicants. She made it, so she should be looking ahead. Optimistic thoughts- how long would it be before she had a picture of herself in this lobby?

Newfound determination kicks in and Dakota finds herself wondering about the other models. She was about to live with these prestigious figures. Would they like her? Were they nice? She was no fool, she knew there would be competition, but surely they could at least bond over their new stressful life. Regardless, Dakota could flourish in any situation, mark her words, this would be no different. She'll do whatever it takes to succeed.

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 𝐷𝐸𝑍𝐸𝑅𝐴𝐸 𝐿𝐼 "𝑭𝒐𝒙 𝑺𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒘" 
Twenty Five [25] | Female She/Her | Guile/Deceit |
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"You're right on time, sweet thing." Dezerae's voice fills the air with low tones as the vulpine maiden made her presence known to her guest. And what a sight was the Illusion Studios' manager, making innocent passerby gasp and stutter over the sight as they stood outside in a straggled flock of agitated birds. Illuminated in a golden halo, Dezerae stood there with practiced patience, her attire belying the casual slope of her shoulders and attention-averse gaze forward. The sunlight amply bathed the russet locks creating a fiery halo that almost offset her coy eyes. A laziness marked her prowl, grace stemming from confidence and experience slowing her stride to a saunter as she removed herself from the door to meet Dakota. Searching eyes took in the most prominent aspects of her presentation — Ah, do I spot a pixie cut? How fitting, many in our current roster will never vouch for something so grungy...joggers, crop-tops, I see - quite casual,...my, oh my, is that a tattoo. A true rebel this one.

Dezerae greeted her with a dry smirk, "Ah, Dakota, yes? You certainly brought your finest for first impressions." Her eyes slid to the inky whorls on her shoulder and she raised an eyebrow with a dry chuckle, "Every model has their own flair; from the ostentatious to the borderline unconventional. If this is your attempt to make a fashion statement, I must say I look forward to what you bring to the table."

Taking but a moment to note Dakota's response to her words, Dezerae spun on her heel with a polished smile, her mask back on her face. Automatic doors slid on oiled hinges as the two women came into polished halls and porcelain corridors. Above them, former models, stars, predecessors, looked on from their hung frames, captivating but empty. Dezerae wasn't surprised to see Dakota's gaze wandering steadily upwards with each step forward, wonder stretching her eyes into adoring saucers. She's certainly got ambitious tastes. Dezerae noted to herself before turning back. "They do look so lofty up there, don't they?" She remarked lightly, "The roster of clients' featured by Illusion Studios has been fairly dynamic in recent years; many simply traverse our halls as one step on their journey to success. Their time is sadly fleeting."

Not a touch of disappointment affected her otherwise matter-of-fact tone, as if the transient nature of her residents did not bother her in the slightest. If anything her tone was even, at best. Thoughtful. "What we have preserved her is merely a memory, a moment, like an insect preserved in amber. We may miss them, but any and all grief is greatly overshadowed by the hope we have at their success." She smiled at Dakota, eyes sparkling like gems set aflame at the core, "But let's not dwell on them, shall we? To fixate on them is to reminisce on the past, but the only way you'll move forward is by focusing on the present. Your present to be more specific"

Dezerae nodded towards the elevators to the upper floors, her tone brisk, "Estella is with your future coworkers at a photo-shoot. Let's get you settled in before they get back. I don't think civilized bedlam makes for good introductions."

[540 words]

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"Suddenly I remembered that her eyelids had never quivered, and that her lilies had not dropped a black petal, or shaken from their places
and understood that I danced with one who was more or less than human, and who was drinking up my soul as an bat drinks up blood"

Emil Musabi | Ravenous Gula
Location: Photoshoot Studio
✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼ 　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

The burst of the shutter filled the cold white studio, flashing lights blinding all but the most experienced as the photographer lowered his camera. "Looking good! Last set!" The director called as the set came to life with the simple words surging into motion a tidal wave, assistants swarming the model that stood radiantly under brilliant lighting. Someone dabbed glistening sweat off a powdered forehead and under the sharp angles of a branded facemask, the cloth coming away soaked as hands pulled at the clothes hugging a slender body. Emil sighed, allowing his body to be manipulated this way and that as stylists fussed over the placement of the belts and how much was too much (never enough, nothing was enough) while others debated how much hairspray to use this time around to achieve the perfect devilishly rugged windswept fantasy that the shoot called for.

Emil was the first of the models to go whenever doing group shoots, always volunteering first even before the sun crested over the peaks of New York's towering skylines. It afforded the rest of his co-workers some much needed rest and the time needed to perfect each makeup look; something Gula was never known for. A facemask and a quick round of eye makeup was all that he needed. It was easy at this point, to lose himself as the lighting fixtures blinded him to the camera and all he could feel was the yawning emptiness that consumed its core and the clothes that barely concealed the gnawing abyss that bit and tore through the void. To drape that nothingness in silks and jewels and embody the dull radiance that knocked hollowly against empty ribs was the only thing it knew to do anymore.

To satisfy it by becoming it.

To show this empty world a bleak cavernous mirror.

To truly hunger

The call of the director came and Emil snapped back into focus, sliding into a slight hunch as the heavy fur padded riding leather slipped off one tantalizing shoulder to flash the camera with the pure ripped silks of the shirt underneath, peaks of a chest harness teasing eagle eyed consumers. He fixed the lens with a heavy stare, the peak of bright blue contacts over the tops of aviator sunglasses smouldering with a promise. Hands bare of anything but silver gleaming rings were shoved into the slim leather pockets that hugged his form, the thin chain which dangled even thinner sides of metal caught the light as they dangled from the delicate metal. The low hang of tussled hair draping behind him, shadowing the pure white background in a predatory loom wild and untamed.

The camera stuttered.

Sliding the sunglasses up to push tastefully mused hair back to show off the sparkling gems glued under sharp eyes as it caught the light, Emil rested his cheek on the edge of the back of his hand, careful to hover just milometers off the skin itself. Carefully chosen rings adored fingers stretched out just enough to beckon consumers into the empty void that bore his visage. Down-turning his eyebrows the slightest bit to add a touch of concealed yearning and allowing the pale column of his throat to drown in the attention, the biker boyfriend of every young girl's dreams let a few strands escape the hold of the sunglasses to fall artfully over his face.

Another burst of clicks, another pose.

A quick lighting of a fake cigarette only for it to be crushed into oblivion, an arm thrown out in open invitation with a flourish that sent the coat into a picturesque arc; belts arcing in perfect circles to accentuate a slim waist and leather covered skin. Ash scattered along the arc of the belts, the still burning embers reflected in smouldering eyes that glimmered through thin contacts as Emil tilted his head just right, enough to display the unmarked potential of unblemished skin. His free hand came up to bury thin fingers into thick waves, the pale skin lost in the hair as they uselessly pushed back hair that was already pinned downed letting the rest of the long locks fly out against the momentum. A crinkle at the edge of his eyes and drawing his eyebrows down for the perfect roguish smirk, designed and perfected for the front pages of magazines and spreads that would be cut out and hung on still youthful walls.

Silence.

"Alright, that's the last one. Thank you Gula!" Came the final call as Emil sighed, shaking out his hand of any lingering ash and pulling down his face mask with his free hand.

The blinding smile hidden under the thick black fabric caught the crew off guard no matter how many times they worked with the model. "Thank you for all your hard work!" He cheered, bowing to the stunned employees as he made his way towards the waiting rack of clothing which housed the pieces he had modelled for. Shrugging off the leathers, Emil carefully handed them off the the assistants who buzzed around him. Holding his hands out so that the rings could be slipped off easily, the model brightened considerably as the lowered his head for the necklace to be taken off.

"Ah, that's right! I have a little something for you all. Quick quick, get these off and I'll get them for you right now." He chirped, bouncing on his heels as the experienced staff giggled at the familiar antics. As interns scrambled to put everything away, Emil scampered off to where they had placed there bags uncaring if all he was wearing was the chest harness and leather pants. Looting around for a second as a poor stylist scrambled over to unhook the accessory, Emil made a childish sound of triumph as he held up a set of wrapped rectangles. Having the good graces to stay still until the harness was slipped off him, Emil returned to the stylists with a beaming smile. "Here, I hope theres enough for all of you. I was in a hurry today so its a bit smaller than usual but I think everyone should be able to enjoy them to the fullest! They're all carefully balanced and I tried to keep everyone's preferences in mind. If you eat about a spoonful of each dish, it should only come to around 1,200 calories so please feel free to eat it throughout the day as it will be filling even for the girls who are on diets but also be careful not..." As his mouth continued to expound the nutritional facts, deft hands unwrapped the packages to reveal stacks and stacks of tupperware all filled to the brim with a variety of delicacies. From a quinoa salad sprinkled with dried sweet potato to carefully aged and smoked fishes, a whole assortment of health foods lay within the containers.

A round of squeals came up as the stylists fawned over the gift. One intern ran off and returned with a stack of containers as well, identical to the one in the model's arms save for the fact that they were empty, washed and clean. "Ahhhhh we've been looking forward to this all week!" One of the girls sighed, taking the food from Emil's arms as the other laughed at their overreactions. The rest chimed in with their agreements, all cooing over the selection of food they had been given.

"If you don't mind me asking, why is there less this time around, Gula?" One of the more senior stylists ventured, staying out of the circle of staff as she handed the model the clothes he had entered the studio wearing, Emil in turn handing over the case in which the contacts were store, blinking natural brown eyes in confusion. It was rare that he would even skimp on the quantity of the gifts he brought though that never affected the quality one bit.

Sliding the simple black sweater over his head, Emil hummed as he finally registered the words. "Ah, that. We're getting a new hire today, actually so you'll probably meet them soon. I just lost track trying to think of what to cook as a welcome dish... I hope they're not allergic to anything..." He fretted, struggling slightly as he hopped awkwardly into skinny jeans that were perhaps a bit too tight on him. Sue him for wanting to make his non-existent ass look a bit nicer.

Indeed, sitting innocently on the top shelf of the fridge in The House of Illusions sat a prepackaged meal with a cheerful yellow sticky note plastered on the glass, written in a neat looping scrawl.

For our Newest Family Member,
Congratulations and Welcome to Illusion Studios

though if one were to look closely a more hastily scrawled note written under the welcome message:

if any of you assholes who isn't our newbie eats this i will make you throw it up

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Mercy sat as still as a doll as she let the assistants do their magic to turn her from a tired looking mess into one of the top models. The mess of curls that is her blond hair into something stylish and desirable. Her face almost molded into one of perfection. Everything needed to be on set, and to live up to the reputation.

"Miss Mercy?" One of the assistants says after a few moments. Mercy yawns at the sound of her name, looking over at the person.

"Whats up girly pop?" She asks, her voice gentle with a hint of a yawn. All of this is tiring to her, or is it that this is happening too early for her to want to do this?

"You're up next on set. Whenever you're ready." The assistant says cheerfully. Mercy smiles gently as she gets up, dressed up and dolled up to her roll. A soft dress fitted perfectly to her, the soft deep blue fabric easily allowing her to move yet hide none of her natural looks. She heads off slowly to the set, holding back a yawn. Even if this wasn't her style, the dress was comfortable enough to almost sleep in.

Almost.

The moment the cameras were on her, its as if she truly woke up from a dream. The lighting and framing making her go from a model, to something only feasible in a dream. She was if a dream came to life. This was the only real place she came to life, as she always said that living, breathing, everything outside of the set was almost too much work to maintain. Its here though, where she always had a soft smile, a yawn nearly always accompanies praise for the other models she works with, and the dreams of letting her narcolepsy melt away.

"Alright, I think we're done for now Mercy. We'll let you know if we need you back." The director says, knowing she doesn't work for long stretches of time. Mercy nods, her smile dropping as she lets out a long yawn and heading back to where she was worked on for the shooting. She knew she'd be back, she always would be. Its never was easy working with the sleepy nobility after all.

She yawns again, sitting in a chair nearby the clothes rack of uncomfortable and stiff clothes she's had to wear in the past before nodding off, a light nap for all her work. She knows some of the assistants talk about her. How could someone like her be a top model, some ask what she had to do, what strings she pulled to get here.

Caring about those rumors, or even explaining it is just too tiring though.

Something she rather save for when the cameras are on her.

She let them talk amongst themselves, say all that they want. There's no point in stopping them, the effort would be a waste.

When the cameras were on her, thats when she needs to be awake and alert. No time else

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Turning her head towards Dezerae's voice, Dakota has a similar reaction to those around her. Even though Dakota had taken the time to study the current line of top models at Illusion Studios, Dakota couldn't help but be shocked by Dezerae's appearance. She stiffened slightly when Dezerae took the time to analyze her, an unnatural feeling of self consciousness striking from within her when Dezerae's gaze hung on her tattoo for a moment. Dakota was never particularly embarrassed of her more, bold style within the modeling world. In fact, it gave her a sense of pride that she was able to accomplish getting popular off of casual attire and get away with having a large tattoo- a taboo in some modeling industries. But for once, she almost regretted having it.

Moving a hand to her shoulder, a failed attempt to hide the tattoo, Dakota's smile falters slightly at Dezerae's initial words as she once again returns her gaze to the tattoo and for a moment, Dakota feels a need to verbally defend herself, but the feeling vanishes at Dezerae's final statement.

"Oh" she manages to say, uncharacteristically shocked; but pleased that Dezerae approved her look. "Thank you, I look forward to working with your team. I will work my hardest to further the reputation of Illusion Studios" Dakota mumbles professionally, lowering her head slightly to mask her embarrassment.

As Dakota follows Dezerae, she can't help but glance up at the framed pictures that line the hallways. Dakota's initial self consciousness fades away and is returned by her determined feeling from earlier. She would make a name for herself here. No matter what it takes. Her attention is again drawn to Dezerae when she speaks. A proud smile fills Dakota's face, "their fates are already decided. This may be a stepping stone for them, but I intend to remain here and reach new heights. Some may flourish in new soils, but if one thing is certain, I won't wither away here."

Nodding in agreement, Dakota moves to stand next to Dezerae, taking note on what floor is the living quarters. She relaxes slightly, happy to have a few moments to adjust to her new life before she'll be meeting her other co-workers.

♥ ANNE MARIE ♥
Twenty Two [23] | Female | She/Her | Pride
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the black swan

576 words

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"Nature’s first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf’s a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.”



Glazed eyes stared at the various models doing their photoshoots, as Anne-Marie had her makeup done. Well, not that she needed much makeup anyways. She had always been lucky enough to be gifted with a face as smooth as porcelain, a ready canvas waiting to be painted. Anne reached up to touch up her lashes, frowning when one fell off. A mirror. Where was the mirror when she needed it? One of the stylists quickly brought one over to her, as she lifted it up to observe her face. Imperfect. Unacceptable. The barest hint of a frown broke her smile, brief moment of weakness before it was masked up by her usual sweet, gentle smile that the people had all grown to adore. Nimble hands touched up her own face, removing the smudges and imperfection from the canvas and repainting her artwork. She checked her appearance again; this time with a satisfied smile. There, much better. This was the perfection everyone expected of the living doll. A heart that could not feel, a pretty face for everyone to admire.

“Anne Marie Täd- Tadydel- Miss?” Her name was called, and she grimaced inwardly as her last name was miserably butchered. “Just Anne” She replied with a smile, heading toward the pristine white backdrop. Today was focused on the concept of purity, as Anne sported a flowing white gown, hair shining with little pearls and diamonds woven in to luscious locks. A lotus flower was the only accessory she wore this time, neatly arranged on her head, sleeves long and flowing. She clasped her hands together, as if praying, a serene smile on her lips. A stunning angel. The cameras flash, as she changes her pose. One, two, three. A well practiced smile, eyes shining with kindness, her expression changed ever so slightly for each and every shot. And then…done. She checked over the photos, deleting those that weren’t perfect- weren’t deserving to be posted anywhere, retook certain shots until she was happy.

And then Anne finally relaxed, releasing a breath she didn’t even know she was holding. Away from prying eyes, her facade dropped, lips curving into a prominent frown, as she checked her schedule. How lovely. A new model was to be moving in. Having to be around the other models was tiring enough, her facade cracking more than she would have allowed, lashing out, furious when people didn’t take their roles seriously. Imperfect. Something she definitely had to work on. Else she suffer her own, self-inflicted demise. Perfection was to be achieved. No matter what she did. She had to succeed. Be the best.

What if the new model was better than her? Anne was already threatened enough by the presence of some of the models, what more a newbie? Oh, how embarrassing it’d be to be outshone by a newbie. Her fist clenched at the thought, and in the privacy of her quarters, her fist clenched, pretty crimson spilling out, trickling to the floor like a little steam, shards of glass so pretty and sharp- you wouldn’t feel a thing. Reflecting light like a puddle of diamonds, rainbows danced in the air. Failure was not allowed. She sighed heavily, her heart pounding wildly, her mind hazy, yet racing with a thousand different thoughts. No. She wouldn’t- couldn’t afford to let such small, trivial things affect her.

And so, Anne picked up her mask, and put on a smile. Her next photoshoots would require gloves.

✧₊⁺ ESTELLA BLAKE ⁺₊✧
Twenty Three [23] | Female | She/Her | Acedia
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The morning after a rowdy night out was never fun, as Estella soon remembered as she woke up to the blaring sound of her phone's ringtone. Her head pounds and her stomach churns as she sits up in bed: not hers, not so shockingly. Judging by the bright light that seeped into the room, irritating her bleary eyes, it was likely about noon-ish. With a miffed whine, Estella silences the device, letting the call from "Father" go straight to voicemail. She wasn't in a sound enough state to want to bear the brunt of her father's rebuking. Estella breathes a sigh of relief when the call ends and there's no immediate second attempt to reach out to her. Instead, the phone screen lights up as a notification is received to inform her of a delivered voicemail. There's a little hesitation before she places the phone to her ear.

“Stelle - ma étoile - I hope you’re well. Please could you call me back when you get this message? Love, Dad.”

⁺₊✧₊⁺

It had now been a year since Estella had inherited her father’s position as director of Illusion Studios and - if she had to be brutally honest - she too often regretted allowing him to sway her into accepting the role, only agreeing to sign the contract out of guilt, obligation, and under the false promise of being adequately trained. As she stepped into the House of Illusions, from the very first moment, Estella felt like she was being smothered by the heaviness of the tension that lingered in the air. Initially, she brushed it off as just being nervous about returning to the industry which had scarred her, mentally and emotionally. But the smokescreen quickly began to clear, revealing to her the questionable morals and values of the agency’s complex residents: a far cry from what she had ever known.

A normal day for Estella would typically be spent cooped up, for hours at a time, in her office. Whether it be responding to emails, catching up on paperwork (because, for the longest time, she just could not get a grasp on how to do the finance stuff), or sitting in on conference calls. It wasn’t anything exciting - and certainly did nothing to help her stress - but the amount of focus and professionalism it required from her is likely what has led for Estella to become a lot more mellow, than compared to her more shameless teen years. Occasionally, however, she’d accompany the team of models during trips and the bigger events, as the head of the company. Today’s task at hand was supervising the elite team’s photoshoot. Opportunities like this, which allow one to momentarily escape the confines of their office and a mountain of soon-due paperwork, are typically seen as a blessing.

Estella is an exception - in this particular scenario, at least. And it’s a little ironic. Being a former child star of (almost) ten years herself, it’s normally assumed that she would already be acclimated to the bustling environment of the photography studio. But this is not the case anymore. With a developed fear of being in the sights of the cameras, stemming from a sickening secret that she fiercely keeps to herself, Estella finds these experiences rather overwhelming. It was due to the trauma sustained that, ultimately, meant the end of her modeling career was prematurely induced, and her name was quickly replaced by the next in the competitive world of fashion.

Every click and flash of the camera is like a slap in the face, serving as a cruel and stinging reminder of ‘that’ day; yet, her vacant gaze and the thin line of her lips give away nothing of her discomfort. The keenest of eyes could - perhaps - spot the subtle telltale signs. From the way her hands quiver as her delicate fingers pick at the cuffs of her sleeves is an unconscious attempt to distract herself from the anxiety swelling within her. Or how she bites at the dryness of her lips: did she remember to drink today? Likely not. And her chapstick? Strawberry flavored, but had also been forgotten in her car, once again. Or even by the fact that she simply just can’t stand still. The subtle shifting of her weight from foot to foot, a restless dance, not wanting to appear too eager to either leave or stick around. After all, the spotlight is no longer hers and Estella does not want to ruin this chance for her models. She knows all too well about the price of a shattered dream.

“Miss Blake, would you like to review the photos of today’s session, so far?” a photographer calls out to her suddenly, snapping her out of her daze.

“Y-yes!” she stutters, before clearing her throat and composing herself, “I’ll be right over.”

She makes a mental note to bring Dezerae with her next time, as she cautiously treads across the studio floor.

[ 818 words ]

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"Silk moths can’t fly. It’s been bred out of them for five thousand years.
Most aren’t meant to live long enough to break the chrysalis; flight’s an unnecessary trait.”

KEIKI MEYUMI

"Too tall....too short....ugh." Keiki tapped away mindlessly at their screen. "Is it really so hard to find someone decent on this site?" They squinted at their phone, groaning audibly. "Screw you Tinder. Am I really destined to never find love on this godforsaken site?"

Make-up brushes dusted their cheekbones and startlingly red lipstick was re-applied to their lips.

All done, Meyumi. You are ready now.

They glanced up. "I am? Heck yeah.."

Keiki marched up to the cameras, donning a flowy pink dress adorned with roses. The familiar click, clack of their heels signalled that they would once again wear their signature red heels, but this time, their usual red nails had been replaced with a soft baby pink. Their eyes twinkled as they looked into the cameras. There was an odd sort of thrill that modelling gave them, a small burst of happiness everytime they heard the click of the cameras, and that sudden burst of light. Keiki adored poring over the finished pictures afterwards, and feeling a small sense of pride when they saw a particularly good one. They were Keiki's small pride and joy.

Pose after pose after pose, and then Keiki was finally done. Their cheeks were slightly flushed and their mouth ached from smiling so much, but Keiki was still pleased. They reviewed their photos, their smile faltering slightly after seeing the outcomes. The photos looked off. The smiles didn't look genuine. It didn't feel like...Keiki.

They sighed. Oh well. There was always another photoshoot, right?

Keiki grimaced.

The news of a new model arriving excited them, and distracted Keiki from the particularly disastrous photoshoot session they'd just had.

What was the model like? What was their name? Were they even cute? So many questions....

Keiki sighed. They hoped the model was at least a nice person. They'd started to annoy people with their endless yapping about romance, nails and more romance. But what more is there to life then those three?

---

---

Niwa Atsushi

---

Hey Niwaface.

It was only a casual glance down at his phone. He was going to put it away, because nobody else showed respect to the makeup artists. The screeching models could produce was, quite frankly, as high and as annoying as their standards. Sometimes, if the others around you fell short, you'd have to pick up after them.

You show the little man that he was valued. That as little as others seemed to respect them, their efforts were cherished.

He thought that was important.

But he could take one moment for what appeared to be a very important message.

He did his best to ignore the little flicker of hope in his chest the tiny chamber in the depths of his heart that he'd reserved for someone. The person who was maybe texting him now.

Holding his phone within the folds of his turtleneck, trying to appear uninterested, Niwa began to type.

Who is this?

It took a moment for the unknown number to reply. As they typed, Niwa's eyes ran over the digit code, trying to figure out where it came from. Was that Keiki's home town? Some new place halfway across the world?

Probably the latter. Niwa had been in the business long enough to know the way around the whole fan culture thing. There'd be a leak every month or so, and it'd be hell to change it. Making it some obscure thing in a small town of Medicine Bow or some crap was just one way that models ducked out of the weird fan calls.

It would be so like Keiki...

Inside his chest, the hope burned so much it hurt. The thump of his stupid, silly heart beat against his ribs, a tingling pain racing up his spine. His foot had fallen asleep, but he didn't dare move it, afraid it'd shatter the moment and he'd wake up again, with only the memory of their dizzying perfume dancing through his head. Cold and alone in his room. Alarm clock reading 4:30 in harsh red letters that seared through his mind.

The time he lost them.

The next messages came rapid fire, one after another.

I know what people are saying about you

I want to help

Don't you want one person on your side?

Ducking the answer, huh?

Something very cold settled into Niwa's chest. This wasn't Keiki. This was a phony. Someone who knew them well enough to use that stupid nickname, who wanted to talk to him so badly they'd make up something about...

Oh he knew who it was alright.

How dare she.

Get out of my life.

Gripping his phone harder than he knew he should, he tapped the icon beside the number and navigated to settings.

Please Niwa talk to me

Niwa hit the block button and let the phone fall into his lap. The makeup girl murmured something about doing his eyebrows and he obligingly lifted his chin.

Staring into his reflection again, he noticed the tiks in his jaw. He breathed out, but the anger remained.

It was her again. Of course it was. Why would it be Keiki? They could talk to him whenever they felt like it. Same workplace, no reason for any kind of bumbling around with numbers.

Using that nickname to just get a few words from him... it was so like her, it set his teeth on edge. She was pathetic. Once, he'd liked her for it. Poor sweet sister, looking for a little love and willing to kill herself getting it.

But now it just made him feel like hitting something. They both knew he hated her. Why couldn't she just let the torched remnants of that relationship go?

Whatever she'd been to him, well, that was all ash now. His future shone brightly, a fresh batch of embers for him to fly to, to capture and cradle, coaxing it into the beautiful roaring fire he knew it could be. Everything could be perfect... if only the past could just stay where it belonged.

In a blackened house with crumbling supports and scorched stone pathways.

With all the memories burned to the ground.

As they deserved.

As she wanted.

Wasn't that what you wanted, sister, after all? Everything gone but the two of us? What a beautiful future you've made for us.

Niwa blinked, realising that the makeup artist had left the room. It was done. Staring into his reflection, he lifted a hand and ran it over his jaw.

The people always tried to make it look softer, more feminine. They didn't want it square, not like those handsome male models you saw in magazines. Maybe they felt he couldn't work it.

He blinked, wishing away the water in his eyes.

You crybaby! they'd laughed, those green eyes practically shining. Come on, it's not that bad. Iiiii think you're cute enough.

They winked and for just a second he was lost in that moment, in the sunlight streaming down and lighting up their hair like a crown, in the way that delicate hand was extended to him, offering him a future, in the realness of that moment, without anyone there, just him and his perfect Keiki and their beautiful world...

Then it was over and he was just Envy, staring into his too-pretty reflection. Model.

Not Niwaface.

He stood up abruptly, knocking his chair back. With a yelp he lunged for the stand he'd sent flying and set it back up carefully against the wall. Right.

I hope I didn't damage it, he mused. Leaving the room, he carefully shut the door behind him, his hand loosely brushing over the knob.

The main corridor was flodded with people, but as he moved, the crowd seemed to part for him. All around him, people were whispering.

Are you keeping something from me?

That wouldn't do. That wouldn't do at all. Secrets were a great sin, after all. They set his teeth on edge.

Furrowing his brow, he made a beeline for one of his good friends. A baby recruit he'd brought into the fold. They were talking with a group... Ah, he didn't like her. He'd have to warn them to keep their distance. She could be dangerous.

Ten minutes later he emerged, smiling triumphantly, the girl's glare on his back and his friend's worried little smile in the back of his head.

Someone new had come to the agency? An anxious little thing, new to the modelling world?

"They'll need me," he mused to himself. "People here can be right vicious."

Humming with a happy skip in his step, Niwa made his way to where the newbie was supposed to be. He appreciated how the crowds seemed to part around him. Bullies knew to keep their distance.

Once you made an example of one, of course. But the flock was ever changing, and so it needed a vigilant shepherd. He'd just have to see if the poor sweet lamb that had arrived was as they said... small and terrified.

If there was a new wolf in their ranks, well...

Niwa knew how to deal with predators. He wouldn't let some sheepskin fool him

---

Early that morning, Casimir Devereaux had felt the wind in blow through his hair as he shot through the New York streets. The putrid smell of burning rubber and cigarette smoke trailed after him, trails of smoke following the skid marks of his tires. The familiar sound of blaring police sirens resounded between the high buildings with sunlight reflecting off glass surfaces.
As he swerved his motorcycle onto a sidewalk, parting pedestrians and receiving the most creative swear words in the world, he ducked under scaffolding and into an alleyway. A few minutes later, he slowed to a cruise, viewing the crowd of reporters and paparazzi.

Maybe a half hour later, he had begun his photoshoot. A simple suit was not of his tastes and as he was adorned with a sturdy coat with golden accents, he inhaled the smoke from his cigarette. To the exasperation of the PR team, Casimir was almost never on time, and always had a pack to smoke. The cameraman shook his head at the smell of the smoke, and just to spite him, Casimir waved the smoke in his direction and then blew a quick kiss.

Once the first outfit was done, he excused himself before they could even show him the next one. He collapsed onto a couch. It wasn't like he was exhausted, it was all dramatics, but it was sort of his thing. He laid there, occasionally taking a puff on his cigarette, and thought about everything important that he had been informed of.

Photoshoots, more photoshoots... Anything else?

Another puff as he thought.

Right. The new model. Better not take my job.

His phone buzzed with the perpetual calls from his lawyers. They were always trying to cut off his wings. Casimir felt suffocated by their very existence. Every time they called, he hung up. Every time they tried to visit him, he went out for a ride. Every time they did anything, it was a delicate dance of cat and mouse, except Casimir couldn't figure out who was who.

As he walked to the bathrooms, he relished the sound of his dress shoes clacking against the marbled floors. He dropped his phone into the trash can. Didn't matter, he could use one of his others. His friend owned the company, after all. The vibrating phone would be someone else's problem.

The problem that Casimir was interested in was him.

When he emerged back into the room, he stood on his tiptoes to see if he could spot his target, but Casimir was swept away to continue his photoshoot.

---

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 𝐷𝐸𝑍𝐸𝑅𝐴𝐸 𝐿𝐼 "𝑭𝒐𝒙 𝑺𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒘" 
Twenty Five [25] | Female She/Her | Guile/Deceit |
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A surprised hum left her mouth as the russet-haired director spun around to face her once the pair cleared the imposing gallery surrounding the front hall. A pair of silver elevators awaited their arrival to the upper floors; although residence halls for staff and the models were separate — and her own quarters were considered strictly administrative and doubled as a study — the distance between them was generally ignored in favor of much more subtle barriers. Walls created internally rather than externally. All in all, the various sectors of the apartment remained interconnected and thus fairly accessible to all members,

"Fate, huh?" Dezerae murmured distractedly, her voice bringing with it lower undertones of what sounded like dry amusement. Her gaze remained facing forward as she replied, "I think fate is a matter of perspective. It may seem all too easy to resign yourself to current circumstance — and the whims of fate. Some are cursed with misfortune at every turn, while others revel in boundless relaxation and prosperity. Regardless of which party you may belong to, it's hard to resign yourself to current circumstances unless you're truly out of options. And even that is temporary."

Memories of her late night card games with the Regrator come to mind. The first few, she lost in spectacular fashion — crushed beneath his cunning and ruthlessly competitive edge. Most infuriating was how Pantalone had seemingly gone out of his way to keep the Ace of Spades out of her hands every time. He would always move first, setting the stage. It kept her on the back foot, kept her dancing to his tune. It was only after she was being led around by the nose (and soundly humiliated) for four games straight did she realize that going in blind did have its advantages, clearing the mind of initial biases and conceptions that could affect her choices.

Seeing Dakota fumble between assertive and diffident was simultaneously nostalgic and amusing. Not that the Director was fooled; Dakota's fixation upon the grand portraits in the foyer was enough of an indication of where her interests lay.

Win a heart with a kiss and the eye with a diamond

A short ding preceded the elevator door sliding open gracefully to reveal glass interiors. Even from within the box, the lobby is visible as the car rises upwards. A smile found itself on Dezerae's face as she shook herself from her musings. "After you." She uttered sweetly, waiting until Dakota had crossed the threshold before joining her. She pressed the button for level four before turning back to Dakota; in the background, the elevator began to rise with barely a jolt.

"I must say; your earrings compliment your aesthetic nicely. You certainly have an eye for the expensive." She said with an interested hum, "I've found that there are one of two criteria when people have one of two reactions when it comes to discerning the value of jewelry: the sales price or the jewel on display. Both beauty and price are up to subjective judgement, of course, but the result is the same. So yes, I do believe you'll be staying for quite a while in these silver halls. And I am glad to hear of your determination."

The elevator opened to the residence halls; most of them empty as the recent exodus of Illusion Studios' clients cut the roster down to the smaller group it was today. Dezerae decided not to enlighten Dakota on this little piece of news — it wouldn't do to scare the poor girl immediately and if she wanted, she could do her own research.

"It's really depressing to tend to a garden full of wilting flowers, don't you think?"

[602 words]

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"Suddenly I remembered that her eyelids had never quivered, and that her lilies had not dropped a black petal, or shaken from their places
and understood that I danced with one who was more or less than human, and who was drinking up my soul as an bat drinks up blood"

✧₊⁺ ESTELLA BLAKE ⁺₊✧
Twenty Three [23] | Female | She/Her | Acedia
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“So, what do you think?”

The question almost falls on deaf ears, drowned out by the overwhelming sensations around her.

A hand slithers over her shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze before its fingers begin to knead tight circles into the flesh just above her collar. However, the unsolicited massage does nothing to relax Estella, only serving as an amplifier for her discomfort: her frame tenses and it feels like her windpipe is being crushed, like a mouse in the constricting clutch of a starving snake. Any closer and they’d practically be able to hear the frantic thudding of her heartbeat. The faint scent of an unfamiliar cologne fills her nose as the photographer leans in closer, their hot breath ghosting across the cool skin of her neck. Estella forces herself to swallow the lump in her throat to stop herself from visibly cringing over the sticky condensation that forms.

“I think you’ve done a wonderful job at capturing their individual charms, as always.”

The corners of Estella’s lips curl ever-so-slightly, a reassuring smile to express her approval of the quality of work achieved during today’s shoot. Her hazel eyes remain glued to the laptop before her, doing her best to ignore the pair of eyes ogling her, as she sifts through the raw results. However, it’s common knowledge how cut-throat this industry can be, appearances were everything. Despite how picture-perfect everything may look now, the images captured today would undergo a metamorphosis under the skilled hands of the editing team, enhancing their beauty for the pleasure of the public eye: the illusion of perfection.

‘Emil… Mercy… Anne… Keiki… Niwa… Casimir…’

Her eyebrows furrow and her smile falters as she mentally checks off each of the models. Someone is missing. Lysander? God - had she accidentally double-booked him again? Fortunately - for a model as sought after as Lysander was - this wasn’t a major shoot and something Estella could easily re-schedule for him if he so wished. Although, she had a slight suspicion that he wouldn’t mind if she didn’t. Besides, it would probably do him some good to give him a break from his demanding schedule.

“...Miss Blake?” the photographer nudges.

“S-sorry… What was it that you were saying?”

“I was just suggesting that - perhaps - I could take you out for a drink sometime and 'capture your charm', too?”

‘Absolutely, not.’

A nervous laugh escapes Estella's lips as she writhes awkwardly in her seat, “I’m afraid I’m not much of a model.”

“I beg to differ. You’re young, beautiful - all I’m asking is for a chance.”

As their hand tentatively reaches out to brush the hair from Estella's face, her body instinctively recoils. A subtle flinch that speaks volumes. In a swift motion, she composes herself, smoothing out a crease in her blouse and correcting her posture. This was a well-practiced and, unfortunately, necessary skill that she had learned while navigating this industry. After all, it wasn't just the images of the models she had to be concerned about - but also her own. Furthermore, as a managerial figure, she had a duty of care to abide by, to protect herself and her colleagues from situations like this.

"Actually - I think we're done for today," Estella states, her words laced with finality, reinforced by an unwavering gaze as she reclaims her authority.

"Of course..." Despite the dejection in their voice, there remained a spirited determination in the photographer's eyes, "I'll be sure to have those images sent over to you, once they've been processed."

"That would be perfect, thank you."

A forced smile stretches across the photographer's face as they nod and silently retreat, taking the hint from Estella's suddenly candid responses. Relieved, Estella lets out a sigh as she watches them disappear from view. The tension in the air slowly fades away, leaving behind a moment of solace for Estella. She revels in the return of her personal space, basking in the sense of peace that washes over her.

"Juste ciel..." Estella mutters to herself, her shoulders relaxing as she takes in the tranquil setting around her.

Her hand slips into the pocket of her pants and retrieves her phone, her home screen showing the time reading near noon, along with several unanswered messages. While she remembered, Estella entered the studio's group chat and began typing.

⁺₊✧₊⁺

[ Estella Blake added ~Dakota Thorne ]

~Estella Blake
Some amazing shots from everyone today! It's been a while since we've welcomed a new addition to the team - Let's keep up the good work and set an example for @~Dakota Thorne at Illusion Studios <3

Also - just a reminder that we have a dinner reservation tonight, in case anyone forgot. 7 pm at the Le Coucou: my treat. The dress code is 'Elegant'. I expect to see everyone there! -✧

[ 783 words ]

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"Silk moths can’t fly. It’s been bred out of them for five thousand years.
Most aren’t meant to live long enough to break the chrysalis; flight’s an unnecessary trait.”

It was impossible to argue with that, Dezerae was right. Fate was an entirely subject feeling, dependant on someone's situation. Still, it was strange to imagine that models would leave this place, especially with it's reputation. Why not try to flourish at the top? Upon hearing the compliment, a small smile fills Dakota's face, and she reaches a hand up to gently feel one of her earrings, running a thumb over the jewel. Personally, Dakota cared more about the beauty of the gem, but regardless, that normally meant paying an incredibly high price. "You have quite the eye for small details. You're very observant, I'm quite envious of it. That goes far in this line of work."

As the elevator doors opened up, Dakota was unable to hide her excitement as she gazed around the residence hall. She almost missed Dezerae's question. Am I overthinking this? Or does Dezerae believe that the other models would consider leaving? What could possibly drive them away from here? "I imagine it would be" Dakota responds slowly. "But with enough support, a withering flower can be saved" she adds cheerfully.

Jumping slightly at a familiar chime, Dakota risks glancing at her phone, shooting Dezerae an apologetic look first. "Aww, Estella is so sweet for this" Dakota says with a small smile. "I'm already loving the positive work environment." She notes the dress code and slips her phone back into her pocket. "Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to guide me here" she says respectfully, more out of concern than general politeness- she probably shouldn't be rudely looking at her phone in front of her superior so early on in her employment.

Emil Musabi | Ravenous Gula
Location: Photoshoot Studio
✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼ 　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼
Packing away the empty boxes that the interns handed to him, Emil hummed under his breath as he fished his phone out of the modest looking bag and meandered over to the chairs to wait till everyone had wrapped up their shoots. It was rare, seeing everyone gathered for a singular event, most of their modelling styles so radically different from each other's that they all worked as a collective of individualists. Well, it wasn't like Emil hated that or anything, it worked well for him and as long as the house remained his domain, he could accept anything else that came with the job.

Unlocking his phone with deft fingers tapping in a frankly much too long password, Emil blinked as his phone blinked back at him with a notification that called for his attention. Really, it wasn't that hard to miss. Emil rarely spent much time online anyways, mostly to search up recipes and follow all those health science subscriptions he had amassed to stay on top of the latest research. Time was always slipping away from his fingers and a phone in hand would only widen those cracks even more.

Tapping on the messenger app, Emil brightened at Estella's message, swinging his feet excitedly. He always liked reading what their director had to say, her critiques and praise well thought out and actually helpful compared to some so called "industry veterans" had to say. This time it was only praises and a introduction to their new member which only had Emil all the more excited. Dakota Thorne, huh. That was a cute name! Ah, what food would she like? Based off her last name, perhaps not so familiar with the concept of seasoned food?

Keeping his laughter to himself, Emil began to type out his reply when another text from Estella came in, sending his good mood plummeting to the core. Le Coucou? That absolute pigsty of a restaurant? Even simply reading the restaurant name through the screen made its fingers crawl and throat constrict with nothingness. Its hands shook as it slowly typed out a message, teeth gnawing at its lip. Unacceptable. Utterly unacceptable, eating that sort of high class trash and discarding the sleepless nights of meal planning that it had put in? Emil should be the one preparing all their meals, perfectly balanced and catered to everyone's tastes, not some third rate diner. The emptiness roared in protest, gnashing its teeth and howling injustices into the sky, demanding an explanation. Unhinging its jaw, the emptiness swallowed it whole, shaking hands jabbing furiously at the screen, feasting on foolish ideals of hospitality. Get off your high horse, what better meal is there to have than one that is cooked with the specific person in mind? Le Coucou only served food whose nutrients have been washed and burned away with much too harsh hands, dousing them in excessive butter and too many calories to even be acceptable on a cheat day. There was nothing good, nothing good at all about that decrepit kitchen wrapped in silk and gold. Not even luxury could save a pig house from being rank. No, no this would not do. This would not do at all. Quality food beget quality bodies, elevating already glamorous careers into the infinite possibilities of health and stardom. Not this farce.

--- New Message ---

~Emil Musabi
(⁠人⁠*⁠´⁠∀⁠｀⁠)⁠｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+ Director is too kind, always praising us~

And many warm welcomes to @~Dakota Thorne! If you ever need anything, this Gula is at your beck and call. Lets do our best as agency mates and work hard together! (๑•̀ㅂ•́)و✧

Closing his suddenly tired eyes, Emil tipped his head back to knock against the wall for a second, his heavy sigh trapped under the facemask as warm air caressed his chin. What would be good for breakfast tomorrow? He'd have to change the meal plan based on what everyone ordered and accounting for the newcomer as well... It was a good thing that Emil was used to counting calories down to the gram. Pulling up Le Coucou's online menu, he saved it for future reference and finally glanced up. Casimir's photo shoot seemed to have already ended, one of the last ones for the session. If he remembered correctly, Lysander was also scheduled but had another shoot somewhere else at the same time. Double booking wasn't uncommon even for Emil who sat at the bottom of the proverbial pecking order, so it wasn't that odd that one of the top models was busy enough to be pulled everywhere at once.

Come to think of it though, doesn't Casimir never have his phone on him? Standing up, Emil wandered over to the edges of the set, far enough away that he wasn't getting in the way of the staff yet visible to the model. Even under the harsh exposure of the spotlight, the smell of nicotine and smoke hung heavy on the other's body. Perhaps it was slightly foolish to think so, but Emil slightly envied that about the other. Scent is vital to a dish's profile, half of the meal eaten with the nose alone, and the quintessential aroma of Emil's specialty lay with Casimir. Of course, one could never smell a photo through the bromide and runways always smelled of nothing but sterile wealth, but oh did Emil crave to devour such talent whole.

Once Casimir had taken note of his presence, Emil perked up, waving his fellow model over. "Cassie!" He called, as if the other hadn't already noticed him. "Did you get 'stell's message? We're getting treated to dinner at one of those real fancy places so we got a dresscode." Those final words seemed almost flat in contrast to the beaming smile hidden behind thick black fabric, the scrunch of his eyes doing more than enough to convey Emil's emotions.

---

Casimir smiled when he saw Emil approaching him. He admired Emil quite a bit. The amount of willpower that Casimir saw with Emil simply fascinated him. Whenever Casimir wanted something, there would be sleepless nights until he had his ravenous fingers wrapped around them.

He took another drag of his cigarette while Emil talked. "Cassie? That's a new one."At the mention of a message, he smiled sheepishly.

"Did I get the message? Ehh.... So funny story, my cellphone happened to fall out of my hands accidentally into a trash can. Did I mention it was an accident? Anyway, I have plans, but if Estella's treating us, I guess they can wait."

Casimir let out a sharp breath imbued with humor and wrapped his arm around Emil, who he had been approaching while he talked.

"Hopefully the dinner is just some random dinner. No reason for anything important, right?"

Without waiting for an answer, he continued talking, taking drags from a new cigarette here and there.

"Now that I think about it... Something important is happening... I think. New something... New camerapeople? Who cares?"

He dropped the cigarette and stamped the fire off of it with the tip of his shoe. Casimir tucked the pack of cigarettes into a pocket in his coat, where a lighter already lay.

"Thanks Emil! See you there! Tell Estella I send hugs and thank you's!"

Casimir dashed off, letting his last word last longer as he scampered away, the noice echoing throughout the spacious studio.

---

The moment Mercy's phone buzzes she lets out a soft sigh as she sits up in her chair.

"Oh... right... There was talks about a new person... I think there was..." She thinks to herself as she scrolls through the group chat, reading the messages half awake. She yawns as she gets up to prepare.

"Sorry for the late response just saw the messages. Welcome to the group @~Dakota Thorne." Mercy sends after a moment, waking up just enough to write the text to give the illusion of being awake before grabbing her back from her dressing room and grabbing a small pillow.

One who is as tired as her is always prepared. She starts to nod off when the reality of the messages hit her.

If there is a new person....

And the director is taking them to dinner....

"Darn it all.... There goes my nap this evening... Better be worth it new guy... You owe me big time for demanding such time from me." She mutters, her voice drowsy as she nods off again in a light nap with a small pout on her face.

---

♥ ANNE MARIE ♥
Twenty Two [23] | Female | She/Her | Pride
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black swan

[ xxx words ]

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"Nature’s first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf’s a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.”


The soft ding of her phone alerted her of the messages that had been sent. Picking up her phone, Anne winced softly at the pain that followed, the sharp metal of the black swan charm on her phone digging into fresh wounds, embedding the glass deeper into soft skin. Maybe she should have taken the glass out first. Putting her phone back down, she took out a pair of silver tweezers, sterilised them, before quickly removing all the glass shards. Placing them into a small bowl, she rinsed her blood off them, before transferring the clean shards into a pestle and mortar. Anne ground them up into fine powder, until they shimmered and gleamed like white sand on the beach, except that if you tried stepping on these, it’d make you bleed. She cleaned her wounds and bandaged them neatly, before placing on satin gloves to hide the scars.

She then picked her phone back up, staring at her lockscreen as if contemplating whether or not to open the group chat.

---New Messages---

~Anne Marie
Thank you Director. I am sure the food will be delicious. And to the new model @~Dakota Thorne- Welcome aboard. I hope to see you, and everyone else at the dinner tonight.

Anne scrolled back up the Estella’s message once she was done. Hmm. Le Coucou. A French restaurant. Definitely not something she’d have picked, but if the Director had picked it, it was bound to be pretty decent. Though if she had her way, of course, she’d have dragged them all to her home country for Poronkaristys- sautéed reindeer on a bed of creamy potatoes with crushed or raw lingonberries on top. She got up, heading straight for her sofa as she flung her phone aside, leaving the other five hundred and something notifications as a problem to deal with another day.

A while later, Anne got back up from the couch. It simply wouldn’t do to be lazy. Laziness was for those who took no pride in themselves. Such was unbecoming of a woman like herself. And so, she busied herself with finding a suitable dress for the dinner later. What would go well with her gloves? She hummed to herself as she searched, eventually settling on one that fit her rather well

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𝙻𝚈𝚂𝙰𝙽𝙳𝙴𝚁 𝚇𝙸𝙰𝙽𝙶 "𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖂𝖍𝖎𝖙𝖊 𝕻𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖈𝖊"
Twenty four [24] | Male He/him | Wrath |
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Eyes inevitably drawn toward the light dappled cast over the quaint imitation of polished mahogany, Lysander sat through the usual routine pressed up on him by the makeup staff; porcelain facade marred by the irritated flutter of his lashes when an unwelcome comment hits his ears or a hard scowl when someone tugs on him too hard. Years of such invasive treatment restrict his irritation to tightened knuckles about the chair. Waves of punishing ire boil threateningly close under the surface, and each time he forces it down with equal vigor. While his position is unflattering, breaking his calm over this quaint treatment would be nothing short of demeaning. Restricted to idleness, boredom hit him in a wave and his eyelids suddenly started to droop.

'Double booked for the second time in a week. Curse this fate of mine.'

He was jerked awake by a jerk to his hair as a comb hit a snag.

A shocked hiss escaped him as his spine locked up. "Yes?" He demanded curtly, clearing his throat when he caught the harshness in his tone. He averted his gaze from the flustered stylist and he tried again in a milder tone. "Ah, pardon. It's not you. Apologies. I fear my schedule is catching up with me." Never mind that photoshoots were never his forté. His hand idly brushed her hand so the comb slid off his polished locks and he finally stood up to approach the stage admist her flustered squeaks and sighs. Lysander just managed to avoid an eyeroll of disdain as rosy hues bloomed on her skin. 'How did such a witless damsel wind up here of all places?' As much as he hated being pampered and judged for his physical presentation, Lysander was conversely aware of how his status and the weight of the crown he bore. Oh the names they called him, voices dripping with obsequious awe and pretentious glee. The White Prince, Prince Charming, Illusion Studios' Golden Boy, bringing the studio and agency to uncharted territory, the one who would make lots and lots of coin.

"Someone like you is going places, boy!" "Your public awaits!" "Glad to see someone with old money again." "Aspiring and a pretty face. How lucky you are."

Like I give a fuck what you guys actually think of me.

A blink and he returned to the present, eyes narrowed in a calculating squint as if she wasn't bored out of her mind. "I've kept you waiting but aren't all good things worth their patience in gold?" Crane like steps ascended him to the false setting, his boots thudding mutely as he squared off against his photographer. Arms tucked neatly behind his back like wings, gaze straight ahead. Some of his coworkers may go for a more dynamic or bejeweled presentation, but staying rigid allowed the Prince to fully model his natural beauty. As always, as the camera shuttered to capture his still frame in time, Lysander found his gaze captured by the venetian clock nearby. It was all fake of course, the walls closing in on him like the shackle of a Vacheron Constantin watch on his wrist. The heart no longer beat within its gilded-bronze confines and close inspection would reveal the scent of wood had faded, but the sway of the pendulum was soothing. He counted the seconds.

"Where are we sending this one?"

"Vogue for one, dear Prince." Lysander's eyes narrow just a hair as the pompous tone of his photographer grates over his ears, "They've been asking after you for quite some time. But that's normal for someone of your status. Cosmopolitan, Elle also express their interest. They all want to see you. And I assume you can't make space for an interview with—"

"That'll do." He raised a hand, feeling his stomach twisting. As if his schedule couldn't get any fuller than this. "I appreciate their interest in my talents. And I know we have many good friends there—" These words he spat out like poison. "But I can't make it."

Is this a bidding war or a photo shoot?

"Unfortunately Prince—" Lysander braced himself for a condescending rebuttal, "I'm sure your manager will say otherwise. But we'll grant you the luxury of choosing the time, yes? Wouldn't want the Prince to fall asleep on his throne of course."

His knuckles turned white. "Yeah, that would be absolutely awful for the audience, wouldn't it?" Lysander growled, his temper bubbling up ravenously beneath the surface. He took a deep breath before he would lose it. The walls spun around him, deep oak closing in on the alabster bird trapped within its confines. He took a moent to breathe, and then ended the conversation with a cold, "I'll let Estella know of the message. Thank you for your time gentleman."

Lysander exited the set before he really lost his nerve, elegant script on crumpled paper carrying the note that would damn him to many more of these suffocating sessions and pretentious audiences. A bitter glare suffused with tension swept over the main lobby space until he spotted a familiar mane of fine blonde hair. Immediately guilt seized him and the Prince forced himself to relax as he joined the damsel's side, a firm hand finding its way to Mercymorn's shoulder for a brief moment before he looked her over. "You sleep good? You're starting to look as cranky as me."

Chatter caught his ears - something about dinner, Casmir's misplaced phone, and a french restaurant. He then added to Mercy, a little hastily, "Sleep on the way there. I won't tell Estella. Just wear something comfortable."

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---New Messages---

~Lysander Xiang
Welcome to Illusion Studios, Dakota!
Feel free to direct any questions or concerns towards ~Dezerae Li, our resident manager.

Make yourself at home and see you at dinner at La Coucou.

[830 words]

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"But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core, [b]ut a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings—
I know why the caged bird sings."

Casimir hummed as he walked around the studio’s lobby, snatching makeup brushes and lipsticks randomly as he paced. With a raucous smile on his face, he spotted Lysander.

It was like his whole world lit up. His body, weighed down by the shackles of his crimes, felt free, like the butterflies that pranced without a care through meadows. His heart ached with desire, pumping admiration through his whole body. The lighting was perfect. Framing Lysander’s face with the golden rays. Not golden enough to even come close to him. In Casimir’s eyes, Lysander was the only one in the world who deserved anything at all. The breath in the air, the life in the water, pure existence.

Fixing his hair, Casimir slowly walked towards Lysander. As he got closer, he noticed Mercymorn and smiled at her too. Although Lysander was a full four inches taller than Casimir, he leaned toward the model and gave him a flirtatious grin.

“Hey Lysander~ How was your shoot? Seemed kind of stressful from the outside. Can’t believe they would even try to stress you out after you just modeled. Give the man a break!”

Casimir leaned back close to Lysander, except from the other side.

“You going to the dinner? I might be late, but I’ll be sure to be there if you will~”

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