"Hey, Lady Changing Star, this way please!"
"No, please look this way!"
"Lady Athena, that dress looks awesome on you! Please look this way!"
"Night! Please look this way!"
The ocean of reporters and photographers kept trying to get the attention of the cohort with a tide of shouting mouths and expensive lenses. Nephis felt the flashes of a dozen cameras hitting her eyes like physical blows.
It had only been a couple of minutes since Nephis—along with Effie, Cassie, and Kai—had gotten out of the PTV that had picked them up at the manor, and now they were facing the flashes of over a dozen cameras.
Beside her, Kai was a beacon of effortless charm, though his voice was low and urgent. "Eyes front, Neph. Breathe. If it gets too much, just look at the horizon and count to ten."
That was exactly what Nephis was doing. One would think that since she came from a legacy clan, she would be accustomed to this type of situation—and she was, somewhat, since her grandmother had made her make public appearances when she was alive—but never something like this. The reporters didn't want to see a hero; they wanted to tear off a piece of the Changing Star to sell in tomorrow's headlines.
The photographers kept calling out to them, shouting compliments about their clothes and barking suggestions for poses so they could get the perfect shot. Looking at the cohort, Nephis could see that Kai and Cassie were doing fine—one had ample experience with situations like this, and the other was simply blind.
Effie, on the other hand, could be said to be doing both poorly and well. The huntress was wearing a deep, forest-green dress. The color was so dark it was almost black in the folds, but when the light hit the curves of the silk, it shimmered with the mossy brilliance of a hidden glade. The fabric wasn't delicate; it was a thick, sand-washed silk that looked as if it could withstand the brush of thorns. Unlike shiny satin, it had a matte, "mossy" finish that felt soft to the touch but looked rugged and durable. It moved like liquid but had enough weight to hold its shape.
It featured a deep, plunging V-neckline with structured, wide lapels that mimicked the look of a warrior's tunic. The cut emphasized the strength of Effie's shoulders and neck, framing her collarbones like a portrait. The midsection was tailored with corset-style boning hidden beneath the silk, providing a sharp, cinched structure that contrasted with the fluid skirt, giving the impression of a breastplate. It was sleeveless, with deep-cut armholes that allowed for total freedom of movement.
Originally, it was a floor-length A-line cut with an immense amount of fabric gathered at the waist; however, because Effie was in her chair, the length had been specifically tailored to "puddle." When she sat, the fabric didn't just hang; it flowed over the edges of the wheelchair, completely masking the mechanical frame in a sea of dark green. Instead of a delicate zipper, the back featured a row of small, dark obsidian buttons that looked like smooth river stones.
From what Nephis knew, the hem was slightly weighted with hidden lead tape, ensuring that even if a breeze caught it, the dress would maintain its heavy, regal drape rather than fluttering like a common party dress.
Still, despite how beautiful the dress was, Effie still looked uncomfortable. She's still not accustomed to appearing like this. This was not news to Nephis, since Effie had mentioned before how nervous she was to let people see her like this. Of course, like always, Effie had said it as a joke, but Nephis could see the insecurity. As one of the most famous survivors of the Forgotten Shore, Effie's image was well known among the public—or at least, the image that the government presented of her, which was an approximation of how she had looked on the Forgotten Shore.
Of course, people had seen her when Nephis had given her public speech about the events of the fight and the subsequent escape via the Crimson Spire, but at the time, all the attention had been on Nephis. But now, she was on full display and being assaulted by numerous cameras. For a second, Nephis thought about letting the huntress fend for herself as payback for all the teasing and for calling her grandma the "freaky seer." She really considered it, but with a shake of her head, she decided against it.
She needs support, Nephis thought. I can't compare her teasing to a situation like this.
Placing herself so close that there was barely any space between them, Nephis leaned to her left slightly. "How are you doing?" Her voice came out as a low whisper; over all the shouting of the photographers, She wasn't sure if she had even been heard until she felt Effie's hand bolt out and seize hers. The huntress was strong—even now, her grip was enough to bruise—but her palm was slick with sweat.
"They're going to laugh at me. They're going to say, 'Where did the fearsome warrior go?" Effie's voice was a jagged thing, stripped of its usual bravado "I look ridiculous in this dress. I should have picked something that would go along with the wheelchair. I don't know what I was thinking."
Nephis didn't just stiffen; she became a statue of white-hot iron. The anxious fog that had clouded her own mind moments ago evaporated, replaced by a cold, singular focus. She turned her head, her silver eyes locking onto Effie's with a terrifying intensity.
"No. Don't you dare," Nephis hissed. The sound was low, lethal, and carried the weight of a death sentence. "There is not a soul here who will laugh. I dare them. I dare any of them to make a joke at your expense."
Her grip on Effie's hand tightened, grounding her. "I will burn them, Effie. On the dead gods, I will turn this place to ash before I let them insult you."
It wasn't an empty threat. It was a prophecy. Effie stared at her, seeing the flickers of that familiar, relentless flame in Nephis's gaze. Slowly, the corners of Effie's mouth quirked up. The trembling stopped. She let out a long, shaky breath. "Thank you, Neph."
"And why are you calling it ridiculous?" Nephis asked, her voice gaining a strange, quiet clarity. "In my opinion, it makes the wheelchair look like a throne."
Effie's breath hitched. She looked down at the dark, sand-washed silk.
"Just look at how the fabric falls," Nephis continued, her silver eyes tracing the way the green deepened in the shadows. "It flows over the armrests like ivy reclaiming a ruin. It doesn't hide the chair, Effie; it claims it. It makes you look like a queen on a throne. Don't you see it?"
Effie remained silent for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the shimmering moss-green folds of her gown. Then, slowly, her shoulders pulled back. Her chest expanded. She looked up at Nephis, and for the first time that night, a flash of the old, predatory light returned to her eyes.
A wide, toothy grin split her face—the kind that usually meant trouble for everyone else.
"It does, doesn't it?" Effie chuckled, the sound finally carrying its usual weight. "I like the way you think, Princess. I never knew you had such a big imagination."
Nephis blinked, a bit baffled. She wasn't imagining anything; she was just looking at what was there. She decided not to dwell on the jab and simply gave Effie's hand a firm squeeze. The huntress was back.
"Effie, Lady Changing Star, it's time to head in."
Kai's voice was a practiced anchor of calm, slicing through the chaotic roar of the crowd. With a final, lingering squeeze of Nephis's hand, Effie let go. She adjusted her posture, pulling her shoulders back until she sat like a queen on a throne of dark silk, and began her trek toward the theater doors.
As Nephis turned to follow, a frantic shout erupted from the left—one photographer desperate for a solo shot. Normally, Nephis would have ignored the demand, but she paused. She felt the heavy weight of the cameras on her friends; if she stayed for a few more seconds, she could act as a lightning rod, drawing the flashes away from Effie's retreat.
She pivoted with a statue-like grace, her silver eyes finding a "dead spot" in the crowd—a small gap between the lenses—so she wouldn't have to look directly into the artificial lightning.
While she held the pose, her Awaken-level senses began to filter the noise. The shouting of the reporters faded into a rhythmic, dull hum, and her vision sharpened, instinctively scanning the perimeter. That was when she saw them.
Tucked just behind the security barricade was a family that seemed to belong to a different world. They were well-dressed, but they possessed a quiet, unassuming warmth that felt out of place in this feeding frenzy. A mother and father were leaning down, their lips moving in quiet admonition to a young boy who was jumping up and down with infectious, childhood excitement.
Nephis's gaze drifted curiously to the second child—a girl standing slightly apart from the rest.
In an instant, the red carpet, the flashing lights, and the heat of the summer evening vanished. Nephis's vision "zoomed" with predatory precision, locking onto the girl's features. Her heart, usually a steady and cold engine, skipped a beat, then seemed to stop entirely.
Her body didn't just stop moving; it locked. The "Changing Star" vanished, replaced by a girl who looked like she had just seen a ghost. Her eyes narrowed into silver slits, her brow furrowed in a sharp, pained line, and the air around her seemed to drop several degrees.
There, in the middle of a mundane crowd, was a face that should not have been there.
Sunny?
The thought didn't just cross her mind; it struck her with the force of a physical blow. If there were a world where he had been born a woman, this girl was exactly what he would have looked like. Nephis didn't need to see the name on a registry; she knew that onyx-black hair and the delicate, yet sharp, architecture of that face.
But it was the eyes that trapped her. Even from this distance, her Awakened sight pierced through the evening gloom. She saw the depth of the abyss in those eyes—the same haunting, guarded intelligence she had left behind in the Forgotten Shore.
The world around her tilted. The shouting of the paparazzi became a dull, meaningless hum, and the flashing lights were nothing more than distant heat lightning. She took a step forward, her hand instinctively reaching out as if she could bridge the gap through sheer will.
"Neph? Is something wrong?"
Kai's voice was like a tether pulling her back from a ledge. Nephis blinked, her focus shattering. She gave a distracted, jerky nod toward him, but when her eyes snapped back to the barricade, the spot was empty.
The family had been swallowed by the crowd. The sea of reporters had surged forward, a wall of black suits and glass lenses effectively erasing the girl from existence.
"It... it's nothing," Nephis managed, her voice sounding hollow even to her own ears. She forced her features back into a mask of cold, regal indifference, but her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "Let's go."
As she stepped into the cool, dim interior of the theater, she cast one final, desperate look over her shoulder. The girl was gone, leaving Nephis to wonder if the ghost of the man she loved had finally come to haunt her in the light of the sun.
_______________________________________
"So, that's the director over there, and next to him are a couple of the actors."
Kai's voice was a practiced, melodic murmur. Even in the hushed excitement of the theater, his words seemed to drift only as far as the ears of his companions. The movie had not yet started, and while the audience was still filing into their rows, the air was already thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the low hum of anticipation.
Nephis sat rigidly in the plush velvet seat, her body feeling far too large and dangerous for such a refined space. The seating arrangement offered some comfort; she was anchored between her friends. To her right sat Cassie, whose calm, sightless gaze was fixed forward, her presence a steadying influence. To her left were Effie and Kai, providing a buffer against the rest of the world.
"If you lean forward, you'll see the woman they cast to play you, Lady Nephis," Kai added with a playful, yet respectful, tilt of his head.
Curious about how the world chose to interpret her, Nephis followed his advice and leaned forward. Further down the row, she spotted the director. He was a man in his mid-thirties with auburn hair that had begun to show the first silver signs of stress, though it still retained most of its rich color.
His face might have been considered pleasant under different circumstances, but at the moment, he looked as though he were vibrating out of his skin. An expression of intense nervousness—bordering on sheer terror—was etched into his features, clashing with the desperate spark of excitement in his eyes.
He seemed acutely aware that the legends he had spent a fortune trying to depict were sitting only a few feet away, judging his every move.
Nephis watched him for a moment, her silver eyes cold and unblinking. To this man, their trauma was a script; to her, it was a scar that had yet to stop aching.
Nephis watched the woman playing her—the "Changing Star" of the silver screen. The actress was twiddling a strand of brown hair, her movements jerky and inefficient. She had the lithe build of a dancer, but there was no steel in her posture, no weight in her limbs. To Nephis, she looked like a glass doll pretending to be a sword.
She wouldn't survive a single night in the Dark City, Nephis thought, a cold, detached judgment settling in her mind. The first Scavenger she met would tear her apart before she even finished her first scream.
She caught herself and exhaled slowly. It was unfair to judge a civilian by the standards of a monster-slayer, but the Forgotten Shore didn't leave room for "fair." Her mind drifted for a second to the people she would judge—the ghouls of the Great Clans who deserved the horrors she had faced. The air around her seat grew faint with a sudden, dry heat, but she forced the fire back down.
Not tonight.
She cleared her mind and scanned the row again. She saw a boisterous woman who matched Effie's height and a girl with the quiet, delicate features of Cassie. But as her eyes moved toward the center, she frowned. There was no one who could pass for Sunny.
No one with that pale, haunting skin. No one with that sharp, cynical edge to their shoulders. The row was full of "heroes," but the shadows were empty. It was as if the director had forgotten the most important piece of the puzzle—or perhaps, like the rest of the world, he simply hadn't known how to look for him.
Nephis turned to Kai, who was in the middle of talking to Cassie about the composer of the movie's score. From what she could hear, the music was done by a man named Chino Moreno from a band named Deftones. They must be an indie band; I have never heard of them, she thought.
"Hey, Kai," Nephis murmured, her voice carefully leveled to hide the tremor of restless energy in her chest. "I can't see Sunny's actor. Is he not here?"
She tried to sound bored, as if she were merely checking a list of strategic assets. But beside her, Effie's grin widened until it was practically glowing in the dim light of the theater. The huntress didn't say a word, but her smugness was loud enough to fill the entire row. Nephis looked straight ahead, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.
Kai paused, his eyes scanning the crowd with an idol's practiced ease. After a moment, he raised a hand, pointing toward the main entrance.
"There. That's him—in the red shirt."
Nephis leaned forward, her silver eyes locking onto the figure. The actor was standing near a group of producers, his bright red shirt standing out like a fresh wound against the dark suits around him. He was laughing, his head tilted back in a way that felt entirely too loud, too open.
He didn't have the stillness of a shadow. He didn't have the jagged, hidden edges of the man who had stayed behind. To Nephis, he didn't look like a hero or a monster. He just looked like a civilian playing dress-up in a color that Sunny would have hated.
Nephis blinked, certain her Awakened sight was finally failing her. Wha— What is this?
The man in the red shirt possessed the onyx hair and the pale skin, but that was where the resemblance died. Where Sunny was a creature of shadows and sharp, porcelain edges, this man was a monolith. He moved with the heavy, confident stride of someone who had spent his life in sunlight, with a jawline carved from marble and a build that suggested expensive protein shakes rather than the desperate, wiry strength of a slum-born survivor.
Why would they cast him! He doesn't look anything like Sunny!
It bothered her that they would change Sunny's appearance so much, but strangely, there was something that bothered her even more. Even from here, I can see he's taller than me! Nephis didn't know why, but it bothered her a little. Scratch that—it bothered her a lot that Sunny was represented as being taller than her. Nephis looked at the man and did some mental calculations.
One head... two... Her eyebrows scrunched together in a pained line. How is this even possible!?
By her calculations, the man was at least 7'7". He was a giant. He wasn't just taller than her; he was taller than a Nightmare Creature. The thought of Sunny—the real Sunny—standing next to this titan made her want to either laugh or burn the theater down.
She turned slowly to Kai, her expression a mix of betrayal and confusion. Kai didn't even wait for her to ask. He just gave a weak, apologetic shrug.
"I don't know—take it up with the government PR team," Kai whispered, looking exhausted. "They had 'creative input' on the casting. Apparently, the original height wasn't... inspirational enough."
Nephis didn't say a word. She just extended a stiff finger, pointing through the dim light at the man in the red shirt as he took his seat.
"He's playing Sunny," she said.
Effie squinted, her brow furrowed in genuine confusion. Then, as the actor stood up to let someone pass, his true scale became apparent. He was a mountain of a man. Effie's tan face went a shade of sickly pale usually reserved for seeing a Great Monster.
"Wh-what!" Effie's voice rose to a strangled, horrified hiss. She sat up so straight she nearly hit the row behind them. "But he's taller than me! He's taller than everyone! That's—that's illegal! He's supposed to be a beanpole!"
She opened her mouth to continue her protest, but the words were snatched away.
The house lights died instantly. The scattered whispers of the theater were crushed by a sudden, thunderous roll of drums that vibrated through the floorboards. A massive, silver-white title card flared to life on the screen, illuminating the shocked faces of the real heroes with a cold, artificial light.
The show had begun.
The production logos faded, replaced by a sky so blue it looked painted. It was a perfect, sunny day—the kind of day Nephis rarely remembered from her youth. The camera descended through fluffy, cinematic clouds to reveal a manor that was a polished, grander version of the one she had called a home. On the manicured lawn sat a child. She was no more than six, dressed in a lace gown that the real Nephis wouldn't have been caught dead in. The girl was playing with dolls. Her hair was a metallic gray that reflected the light like a mirror.
They didn't even get my hair right even though I made public appearances with grandma. An whats with the doll. I never played with dolls in my life!
A low, sharp scoff escaped her lips—a sound of pure, icy derision that cut through the swelling, sentimental music of the soundtrack. To the audience, this was a charming origin story. To Nephis, it was a total defamation of the girl who had burned herself alive just to survive.
The girl on the screen continued her pantomime of a "normal" childhood until a shadow stretched across the manicured lawn. A voice followed—stern, resonant, and impossibly familiar.
"What are you playing at now, Nephis?"
Nephis's breath hitched, her lungs suddenly feeling too small for her chest. It was his voice. Or rather, a digital ghost of it. The producers had clearly stitched together syllables from old archival recordings, smoothing out the natural tremors and breaths until it sounded "perfect." To the audience, it was a father; to Nephis, it was a hollow, synthesized mockery that made her skin crawl.
On screen, the child looked up with a bright, carefree smile that the real Nephis didn't remember ever possessing.
"I'm playing heroes and monsters! Do you want to play with me, Dad?"
The movie-child held up a plush, four-legged toy—a sanitized version of a nightmare. Nephis stared at the screen, her silver eyes reflecting the flickering light with a cold, predatory intensity. In reality, "Heroes and Monsters" hadn't been a game played with dolls on a sunny lawn; it had been a desperate, blood-soaked curriculum. Her father hadn't played with toys; he had been the wall of fire standing between her and the end of the world.
He never sounded that happy, she thought, her fingers digging into the velvet of the armrest. And I never smiled like that. Not even for him. The "Awws" from the audience felt like needles. They were watching a fairytale; she was watching a desecration.
The man on the screen didn't take the doll; instead, he reached down and ruffled the girl's metallic-gray hair with a patronizing fondness.
"Sorry, love. Daddy has to go fight some monsters."
The movie-child's eyes lit up with a choreographed innocence. "Will you kill lots of them, Daddy?" She dropped her toys and stood, her face a mask of porcelain perfection that the real Nephis didn't recognize.
The actor smiled—a wide, cinematic beam that reached his eyes. "I will. But remember, Nephis, you shouldn't measure your success by how many creatures you kill, but by how many people you save. Do you understand, little Neph?"
In the darkness of the theater, Nephis felt a phantom heat prickling at her skin. Little Neph. He had never called her that. He had called her his heir, his fire, his North Star—but never a pet name designed to sound "sweet" to a movie audience.
And the advice? It was a hollow platitude. Her father hadn't taught her to "save" people with smiles; he had taught her that the only way to save anyone was to become a weapon that never broke. The screen-father was a saint; her real father had been a soldier who knew the cost of every drop of blood.
Beside her, she heard the faint, rhythmic clicking of Effie's tongue—a sign the huntress was either bored or just as annoyed by the fluff. Nephis just stared at the massive, glowing version of her own "innocence," feeling more like a stranger to herself than she ever had on the Forgotten Shore.
They really should put a fiction tag on this movie, Nephis thought, a cold weight settling in her stomach. She closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose to stave off a mounting headache.
Her memories of her father were fragmented—brief flashes of a man consumed by the clan's survival and the relentless demands of the Flame. He hadn't been a man of "pats on the head." In every memory she held, his face had been a mask of iron and exhaustion. He hadn't smiled; he had endured.
To see him now, rendered in high-definition as a doting, cheerful "movie dad," felt like a violation of the dead.
She opened her eyes, watching the flickering silver light dance across the rows of seats. Don't overanalyze it, she told herself, though the fire in her blood disagreed. It's not art. It's a product. It was glaringly obvious that the producers and the government had worked in lockstep. This wasn't a tribute to the Fallen; it was a recruitment poster. Not a minute in, and they were already weaponizing her childhood, turning her grief into a sanitized narrative designed to make the Nightmare Spell look like a grand adventure.
Beside her, the theater was silent, the audience enthralled by the beautiful lie. Nephis felt a sudden, sharp pang of isolation. She was the only person in the room who knew that the man on the screen was a ghost being forced to dance for a paycheck.
The warmth of the manor vanished, replaced by a damp, grey street that looked like it had been scrubbed with a "misery" filter. Before the camera even settled, the theater's surround-sound system filled the room with the high-pitched, rhythmic sobbing of a child.
The scene was finally presented and it showed a girl of about six what she was wearing could barely be called clothes they were more like colorless rags that barely cover her. On her feet no shoes could be seen only the raw redness of feet that have been walking all day on hot rough concrete streets.
The scene broadened, and on the screen, a second figure appeared. It was a boy of about ten or eleven, forcibly pulling at what looked like a burned piece of bread. He was a shadow in the rain, lashing out with a backhand that sounded like a whip-crack in the silent theater, making her let go of the bread and fall to the side from the force of the impact.
"Please—please give it back!"
Sobs rocked her small body, and her small hands reached forward as if to reach the bread that had been brutally taken from her. A drop of blood slipped out of her split, dried lip and onto the dirty, abandoned street. The boy paid no mind to the crying girl and started walking away, taking a bite out of the bread as he did so. The helpless girl let out a small, muffled cry at her own inability to do anything.
The boy took a glance back at the girl—no remorse in his eyes—and suddenly his head exited the frame violently. The scene expanded, revealing a black-haired boy standing over the crumpled body of the previous attacker. This new boy let a rock drop to the ground, the sound of stone on concrete echoing with a cinematic bass that vibrated through the theater floor. He picked up the bread, which was not far from the unconscious body.
With the prize in hand, the black-haired boy headed toward the little girl. He helped her stand up with a gentle touch, gingerly placing the bread in her hands. Then, he turned to the camera and gave a too-perfect smile. It was a movie-star beam, bright and symmetrical—a far cry from the lopsided, guarded smirks the real Sunny used to hide his thoughts. In the dark, Nephis felt a cold shiver of revulsion; seeing that mask of "purity" on a face that should have been sharp with hunger felt like a violation.
"Thank you," the little girl said in a small, teary voice, pressing the bread to her chest as if it were a holy relic. Fat, round tears came out of her eyes as she looked up at her savior, who looked barely a year older than her. The boy raised a hand and patted the girl on the head softly.
"Don't worry, little girl," he said, his voice smooth and heroic. "I only did what everyone should do when they see a situation like this. Now, how about we get out of here? What do you say?"
The screen changed from only framing the smiling black-haired boy to the face of the now-composed little girl nodding excitedly. A soaring, orchestral theme began to swell, drowning out the gritty sounds of the street with a triumphant melody. As the two children turned their backs to the camera and walked toward the horizon, the theater felt uncomfortably warm.
The audience around Nephis let out a collective, sentimental sigh. They were captivated by the "nobility" of the scene, while Nephis sat perfectly still, her hands gripping the velvet armrests. The contrast between the theater's smell of sweet popcorn and the visual of a child's split, bloody lip made the whole experience feel like a grotesque charade.
What was that? Sunny saving someone and not asking for something in return? Nephis look towards her friends trying to see their expressions. On their face she could see confusion and amusement.
"Are you seeing this?" Nephis asked in a low, breathless voice, directed at the group.
"Yeah," Effie answered. She had been in the middle of tossing a handful of sweets into her mouth, but she had stopped mid-motion, frozen by the sheer shock of what was unfolding on the screen. She gestured toward the frame with a half-eaten candy, her eyes wide "Honestly, I thought that Sunny was the one mogging the poor girl," Effie said while snickering.
At her words, Kai let out a snort and tried to contain his laughter by putting a hand over his mouth. Nephis looked at Cassie, who seemed to be trying to do the same, her whole body shaking with the effort of not making a sound.
Nephis only shook her head, a small, sad smile appearing on her face. I wonder what he's doing right now. The need started to rise from her core, but she quickly got it back under control. No, I need to calm down. I'll just check on him after the movie. I need to see it so I can tell him about it when he comes back. I'm sure he'll have a lot of questions. With this thought, Nephis focused on the movie, trying to remember every detail so that she could talk about it later with Sunny.
On the screen, the grand, imposing gates of the Academy loomed. A young woman stood before them, dressed in government-issued clothes that fit her a bit too perfectly for military gear. Her silver hair was a shimmering, waist-length curtain that swayed in a cinematic breeze that didn't seem to affect anything else. The camera changed to a close-up, revealing a grown-up Nephis.
Then, her "inner monologue" played over the speakers, her voice echoing with a dramatic, rehearsed gravitas.
"So this is it. I made it, Dad. Finally, I'll be able to continue your legacy."
In the darkness of the theater, the real Nephis felt a hot flush of embarrassment. She sank an inch lower into her seat, her jaw tight. She had never said those words—not out loud, and certainly not with that kind of breathy sentimentality. To the public, she was being portrayed as a wide-eyed seeker of heritage, rather than the calculated flame she truly was.
The scene expanded to show more of Nephis and the surroundings. The sound of light footsteps could be heard off-frame, making Nephis turn her head back slightly. A young man stopped a few feet behind Nephis. Curiosity showing on her face, Nephis turned her body slightly so she could see the young man better. The scene focused, showing the features of the new figure. He had silky black hair that was slightly disheveled, giving the young man an attractive but somewhat wild look. Like Nephis, he was also wearing government-issued clothes. His eyes, like his hair, were black. His skin was the type of white that had never been touched by the sun. It was Sunny.
As a subtle, romantic string arrangement began to hum in the background, the camera angle changed, framing Nephis and Sunny together in a perfectly composed shot. Even through the government-issued clothing, the actor's slender but firm build was obvious.
Seeing Nephis look at him, Sunny turned his head with a slow, deliberate grace. After a moment of heavy silence, he decided to walk closer. He stopped right next to her, and they both looked into each other's eyes. The scene was filled with a palpable, manufactured tension that hinted at a deep, destined connection.
Now side by side, the audience could see the height difference between the two. Nephis continued to look up at Sunny, who at the very least was two heads taller than her.
The silence continued for another moment before it was broken by the heavy, metallic sound of a locking mechanism disengaging. With a low, cinematic groan, the massive Academy doors began to screech open. Both figures turned their heads toward the sound, momentarily breaking their intense eye contact.
As the doors swung wide, Sunny glanced down at Nephis with the corner of his eye—a look that was soft, almost protective. Nephis noticed and turned back toward him. Raising a hand with the courtly grace of a knight, Sunny took a half-step back and signaled for Nephis to enter first. It was a gesture of pure, "gentlemanly" fiction.
Nephis nodded on screen, heading inside without hesitation while movie-Sunny followed close behind, acting as her silent guardian. In her seat, the real Nephis gripped her armrest, her silver eyes glowing faintly in the dark. The movie was turning their wary alliance into a fairytale, and she could only imagine the look on the real Sunny's face if he were forced to watch himself act like a polite valet.