AS LUCK WOULD HAVE IT, THE VERY AGENCY MR. ETO HAD DESCRIBED WAS THE SAME BUILDING THE PRESS WAS LYING IN WAIT FOR EARLIER. Meaning, the so-called "celebrity" or "celebrities" to have made an appearance were multiple models affiliated with them, that the populace couldn't wait to catch a glimpse of.

In order to avoid the commotion, Mr. Eto led me down a more secluded path. He scanned his badge, and we ducked through the back door. The ceiling stretched to the sky—I couldn't even see where it ended. On top of that, the marbled floors, silky carpets, and extravagant statues and decor, instantaneously cemented the mind-boggling world I'd stepped into.

My very flesh crawled.

I didn't belong—couldn't have dreamed to.

I'd just get this over and done with quickly, collect my money, and hightail it out of here.

Accustomed to the grandeur, Mr. Eto hardly acknowledged my discomfort. Beckoning me forward, he zigzagged through the halls with decisive motions.

"Although I'd called it a modelling gig," he said in an effort to break the steely silence, "specifically, I need you to participate in one specific shot. The other models are already here—we just need you to get ready, and we can start the shoot soon after."

He politely bobbed his head and smiled at passing staff members, to which they returned the gesture. I couldn't ignore the judgemental glances they spared in my direction. Proving I truly was out of place.

My eyes lingered on passing signs. Shortly after entering the section of the building labelled wardrobe/makeup, we happened across a woman, slumped against the wall.

Mr. Eto perked, immediately.

"Miho, great timing!" he cried. "I have a model I need you to get ready for today's shoot!"

She was a sight to behold, all right. Frizzy neon green hair tied up in a floofy ponytail, angelic facial proportions, and loose black overalls overtop of a white tee. Despite her youthful appearance, however, the dark circles under her eyes were that of an overworked, on-their-last-legs office worker.

"Again?" Petulantly, she slid further down the wall. "I need to get paid more for this. I already finished the other model's look before she ran out of here in tears."

My eyebrow dipped. Tears?

"With the outfit still on, mind you," she whined with a gutted look. "Are you sure about this, Eto? I'd basically be working with nothing worthwhile—like always."

Mr. Eto skittishly whipped his head to me, producing an awkward laugh. He ushered Ms. Miho off to carry on their conversation in private. There was a brief outburst on Ms. Miho's part, and they exchanged annoyed glances between angered grumbles. Eventually, all fell quiet, and they both made their way back to me.

"Nice to meet you, Hinomori!" For some reason, Ms. Miho broke out into an uncannily wide grin. Vivid sparkles filled the air around her. "You're going to love it here, trust me. Please, step on inside!"

She spun open the door to the room adjacent to us, leading me in by the shoulders with a level of boisterous energy she lacked minutes prior. Whatever Mr. Eto threatened her about worked like a charm.

"The name's Miho," she introduced once I'd stumbled my way in. "I work here as a fashion stylist. Leave getting you ready to me. Have you ever modelled before?"

"Never, and I wouldn't have if I wasn't broke," I admitted.

For some reason, she barked out a genuine laugh. "I like the honesty. Well, I'm not going to sugarcoat it either. As glamorized as it is, it is a taxing job. At this agency especially. Day in and day out, we deal with spoiled brats—" Mr. Eto's death stare from the doorway caused her to flinch. "U—um!" she shouted. "We should get you out of those clothes as soon as possible! This way!"

A sinking premonition nestled in my gut.

I had a bad feeling about this. . .

WELL, I PICTURED A LOT OF THINGS, BUT THIS WAS NOT ON THE LIST.

In the tall mirror of this studio, I gave myself a look over. I hardly recognized the person reflected.

In replace of the outfit I'd spent hours perfecting at the crack of dawn, I now wore a blue lapelled blazer, a blank dress shirt and spiffy tie, plaid plants, and unworn dress shoes. My makeup had been wiped and replaced with a simplistic style. My wig had also been swapped out with another pink one. Combed, straightened, and styled into a short bob, with bangs that curtained the right side of my face.

Plainly put—I no longer was dressed like your typical high school girl. The opposite, actually.

A look more masculine than feminine. The type of nonsensical makeover Haruhi was given in Ouran High School Host Club in order to cross-dress as a pretty boy.

"Didn't you need a high school girl?" I sputtered in disbelief.

"Uh!" Ms. Miho stammered. "We're going for a particular style!"

She flashed a strained smile in the mirror, only deepening my incredulity.

Why would she make me put this on when Mr. Eto specifically called out to me for being a girl? Didn't they want a girl?

Maybe I misunderstood. Or, this was somehow related to their earlier conversation, about how the previous model darted out of the building with the actual outfit still on.

As I strung along the pieces of the mystery, the fog of my mind cleared, and the more coherent the current situation became.

Was this an improvise, then?

Even for an improvise, this venture stunk of desperation.

"Are you sure this is the look you want?" I asked once more for confirmation.

"P—positive," she said. Sure enough, she didn't sound positive at all. "Noir Nakatani," she coughed out next, "the fashion designer who designed this clothing line, he specifically requested it. He wanted a very specific type of representation. But very few models can pull off such an adorable yet handsome look so flawlessly. A—and you! You pull it off so well! I can't imagine anyone else doing so! No wonder Eto scouted you! Ha ha!"

I didn't know whether to take that as a compliment or an insult. It sounded more like she was searching for an excuse.

Well, the look wasn't ugly, per se. In fact, it was extremely flattering. Ms. Miho was a qualified professional for a reason.

But, if they were looking for a specific type of "representation," there was no way I was the best fit for it.

Last night, Moe and Saeki teased me about my voice falling short of girly (whatever that meant). Point was, they were joking about it. In the same vein, no matter how much I'd been likened to a tomboy by those around me growing up, I'd never been mistaken for an actual boy.

However, to Ms. Miho and Mr. Eto, I might as well not have qualified enough as a girl (in terms of beauty standards) to model as one in the first place.

And this was their grand solution to making it work.

Damn, how unattractive was I? This was a heavy reality check.

I buried my frustrations behind a sigh. "Oh, whatever. Anything for a check, I guess."

On the bright side, at least the clothes were comfortable.

A knock arose from outside the door.

"Done yet?" Mr. Eto called.

"Yep!" Ms. Miho responded.

"Awesome." It swung open. "Follow me, Hinomori."

Upon a single glance at my attire, he lit up with animated sparkles. He broke out into a blinding smile, flashing me a thumbs-up.

"Exactly what I had in mind!"

"Gee, thanks," I monotoned.

His eyelids fluttered.

"What happened to your enthusiasm? Are you getting nervous, by chance?" he asked, completely misreading my body language.

"Obviously not," I deadpanned. "This whole situation is nightmare fuel, if anything. Being in an unfamiliar building, surrounded by unfamiliar people, forced into some questionable outfit, only to have my picture taken and distributed to strangers across the city. . ."

"Country," Mr. Eto corrected.

I shook my head. "I should've just let you sell my organs."

"W-we're a perfectly normal business!"

Ignoring Ms. Miho's vastly concerned look, he slammed the door shut and whisked me off down the hall.

His shoulders slumped once we were far enough.

"Has anyone ever told you you're a pleasure to be around?"

"I get that all the time, actually."

Perturbed, he removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Perhaps, I'm the one living in a nightmare."

Ironically, I heard that a lot, too. People often didn't appreciate my negativity.

"More importantly, Mr. Eto," I spoke up, "is there any chance I can get something small to eat? This lavish place has gotta offer complimentary snacks and drinks to their clients, right? Please tell me I'm right."

The corners of his lips tugged up. "We do have quite a few refreshments to choose from. We can stop by the cafeteria to grab something for you."

Whoa. They had a whole cafeteria here.

My lips melted into a grin. "Yes! The more, the better, preferably. I'm starved."

His posture slackened. "Ah, so that's what makes you smile," he mused. "I now understand where your priorities align."

Heat claimed my cheeks. "It's literally in human nature to eat," I rationalized. "Free food especially. I'm normal."

"'Normal', huh?"

I raised a brow.

"Nothing." He shook his head as if to bury a thought. "Thank you for doing this stranger a favour, Hinomori. I'll do my best to make this a pleasant experience. . . at least for you."

Despite my imminent confusion, he ushered me forward with a refreshing grin.

"The cafeteria is this way."

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