"The Photographer and his assistant"

"Tighten that clamp. No, not like that—you're gonna snap the whole damn thing. Yeah, there, just enough to hold it steady."

Arata followed the instructions with practiced ease, his hands moving quickly to secure the light stand in place. The studio was buzzing with quiet efficiency—assistants moving around with rolls of backdrops, cables snaking across the floor, and the distant chatter of makeup artists and stylists preparing the model for the shoot.

It was a controlled chaos, but Kenjiro? Kenjiro was the eye of the storm.

He stood a few feet away, adjusting the settings on his camera with a level of focus Arata had never seen before. The air around him was different, almost electric.

This wasn't the tipsy, easygoing man from the bar. This wasn't the guy who slurred through complaints about work and life between cigarettes.

This was Kenjiro Aikawa, the photographer.

His voice, usually full of teasing and sarcasm, was now clipped, precise. "Arata, bring me the silver reflector. Not the gold, the silver."

Arata grabbed it without hesitation, placing it beside him. Kenjiro didn't look up, already adjusting the angle of the lighting, his fingers turning the dials on his camera like a musician fine-tuning his instrument.

"Raise it. More. Too much. Bring it back down—there."

Arata exhaled through his nose, shifting the reflector to exactly where Kenjiro wanted it.

"Good" Kenjiro muttered, finally glancing at him. "You're not bad at this."

 "It's holding a piece of metal. Not exactly rocket science."

Kenjiro smirked but didn't argue. Instead, he adjusted the lens and called out to the model standing near the backdrop.

"Alright, stand up straight—shoulders back. Relax your expression, I don't want 'model face'—I want you. Yeah, that's it. Hold that."

The camera clicked rapidly as Kenjiro captured shot after shot, his stance shifting slightly as he circled around for different angles.

Arata watched, silent.

There was something different about this.

He'd worked a dozen jobs—restaurants, deliveries, late-night shifts at convenience stores—but this? This wasn't just work.

It was art.

Kenjiro wasn't just taking pictures. He was creating something. Each movement was intentional, each instruction carefully chosen.

And more than that—people listened to him.

The makeup artist hovered nearby, adjusting the model's hair exactly as Kenjiro requested. The lighting assistants tweaked the setup without question. The entire room followed his rhythm, moving with his decisions.

This guy's a big deal.

Arata hadn't cared when the bar owner mentioned Kenjiro was famous. He'd heard people hype up celebrities before. It never meant much.

But this? Seeing it firsthand?

He gets it now.

Kenjiro lowered his camera slightly, scanning the shots he'd just taken. Then, with a sigh, he muttered, "Not bad, but not perfect. We need more depth."

He turned, pointing at Arata. "Move the light two degrees to the left. And tilt the reflector up, just slightly."

Arata did as told, his movements quick and sharp.

The second the adjustment was made, Kenjiro lifted his camera again.

Click. Click. Click.

The moment the camera lowered, one of the managers—an overly enthusiastic man in a sleek navy suit—practically lunged at Kenjiro, clutching a clipboard filled with neatly typed schedules and urgent client requests.

"Aikawa-san, before we move on, I need to go over a few things. You have two brand campaign requests from Ogata Corp—both high-profile, one for their winter collection, the other for a skincare launch. Then there's the editorial shoot for Tokyo Mode magazine, they're requesting a full creative spread—oh, and the luxury jewelry brand you shot for last year wants to book you again, but they're asking for a more refined, minimalist concept this time—"

Kenjiro exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. "No."

The manager blinked. "…No to what, exactly?"

"All of it." Kenjiro said, flipping through the images on his camera screen. "Not interested."

A stunned silence.

Arata, adjusting the reflector, paused just enough to glance at the scene.

"…Sorry?" The manager let out a nervous chuckle. "Aikawa-san, these are huge offers. These clients are practically throwing money at you—"

Kenjiro cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Ogata's winter collection? Let me guess—gray trench coats, expensive scarves, models standing around looking like they want to die. Pass."

The manager sputtered. "But the paycheck—"

"I don't take jobs just because they pay well." Kenjiro stretched his arms behind his head, looking entirely unbothered. "What's next?"

"The Tokyo Mode editorial—"

"They want edgy black-and-white portraits with dramatic lighting, don't they?" Kenjiro smirked, shaking his head. "Boring. Pass."

The manager looked like he was ready to tear his own hair out. "Then… what about the jewelry brand? They want you back, which is huge—"

Kenjiro rolled his eyes. "I hate shooting jewelry."

"But—"

"It's all the same." Kenjiro gestured vaguely with his hand. "A model, some rings, a soft glow—snooze fest."

The manager let out a strangled noise, flipping through his clipboard like a man searching for any way to salvage the conversation.

Arata, meanwhile, was trying—and failing—to ignore the model in front of him.

She was tall, strikingly beautiful, with sleek dark hair and zero concept of personal space.

Adjusting the reflector, didn't bother looking up when he heard the light footsteps approaching.

"So… you're new?"

The voice was smooth, effortlessly confident.

His grip on the reflector tightened slightly.

He wasn't dumb. He knew that voice.

And he knew it belonged to her.

Slowly—too slowly—he turned his head.

The model stood barely a foot away, one hip cocked slightly, her sleek black hair cascading over her shoulder. Her fitted dress clung to her in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, and when she smiled, it wasn't just friendly.

It was the kind of smile that messed with a guy's head.

Arata was not immune.

His throat went dry.

Tch. Pathetic.

He forced himself to blink, focusing back on the reflector. "Mm."

The model's lips curled, clearly entertained by his lack of response.

"You're Aikawa-san's new assistant?"

Arata gave a small, disinterested nod. He didn't trust his own voice yet.

Not because he was nervous. No. Definitely not.

But because the way she was looking at him was dangerous.

He wasn't an idiot. He knew how this worked. A girl like her—beautiful, confident, older—didn't just talk to some random assistant unless she was bored.

And yet—

She stepped closer.

Way too close.

"You're cute."

Arata's jaw tensed.

Damn it.

He could feel the heat creeping up his neck, the traitorous rush of biological betrayal.

This was stupid.

He wasn't some blushing high schooler.(Well, technically he is.) He wasn't going to get flustered (He was) just because a pretty girl decided to—

She leaned in slightly, tilting her head.

"Quiet. Mysterious."

Tch. This woman.

Arata inhaled deeply through his nose, willing his body to act normal—to not do anything embarrassing.

No reaction. No reaction. No reaction.

His face remained blank. Cool. Detached.

Internally?

A fucking earthquake.

Was he supposed to say something? Laugh it off? Roll his eyes? What was the protocol for getting hit on by a literal supermodel while holding a reflector?!

He was debating whether to move or just accept his fate when—

"Oi."

Kenjiro's voice cut through the moment like a damn blade.

The model barely flinched, but Arata?

Arata almost sighed in relief.

Kenjiro still wasn't looking at them, his eyes locked on his camera as he adjusted the lens. But his tone? Oh, it was dry, unimpressed, and laced with that signature "I-don't-have-time-for-this" energy.

"Don't flirt with my assistant in the middle of a shoot."

Arata nearly choked on nothing.

WHAT.

The model scoffed, crossing her arms. "It was just small talk."

Kenjiro finally looked up, adjusting his sunglasses. "Yeah, well, my assistant-in-training needs to focus. He's got enough on his plate without you distracting him."

Arata clicked his tongue, shaking his head. Unbelievable.

The model pouted—actually pouted—before flicking her hair over her shoulder and sauntering back toward the set, heels clicking against the floor.

Arata refused to watch her go.

Absolutely not.

Instead, he turned to Kenjiro, deadpan. "Was that necessary?"

Kenjiro smirked, slinging his camera strap over his shoulder. "Oh, please. I just saved your ass."

Arata scowled, his voice flat. "I didn't need saving."

Kenjiro snorted. "Oh yeah? Then what was that just now? You looked like you were about to have a stroke."

Arata huffed, adjusting the reflector way too aggressively. "Tch. Whatever."

Kenjiro's grin widened. "It's fine, kid. Happens to the best of us."

Arata refused to dignify that with a response.

"Alright, reset the lighting. We've got five more shots before break."

( >﹏<.)

The first half of the shoot wrapped up faster than expected. Kenjiro let out a long sigh as he stretched, rolling his shoulders back like a man who had just survived a war.

"Alright, break time." he announced, snapping the camera strap off his neck and tossing it onto the table beside him.

The assistant crew began cleaning up the space, adjusting lights and shifting backdrops for the next set. Arata, who had been quietly standing near the equipment, didn't wait for instructions. He had already picked up Kenjiro's camera bag and was gathering the scattered materials without needing to be told.

Kenjiro watched him for a moment, amused.

"Hah. You're fast."

Arata adjusted the strap of the bag over his shoulder, giving him a sidelong glance. "Isn't that the point of an assistant?"

Kenjiro let out a dry chuckle. "Well, yeah. But you don't look like a kid who takes orders well."

Arata didn't reply. He merely shifted the bag to a more comfortable position and followed Kenjiro out of the studio.

The photoshoot was in a high-end location—some pristine, glass-walled building with a rooftop lounge that overlooked the heart of Seon. As they stepped onto the terrace, the crisp afternoon air brushed against their faces, carrying the scent of city life and freshly brewed coffee from the nearby café stalls.

Kenjiro exhaled, shoving his hands into his pockets. "God, I hate this kind of job."

Arata glanced at him, his expression unreadable. "Then why take it?"

Kenjiro smirked, tilting his head slightly. "Because I like being able to afford alcohol, kid." 

Arata made a small noise that could've been either amusement or judgment.

Kenjiro stretched again, groaning as he rolled his neck. "I'm not a fashion photographer. Never wanted to be. But every now and then, you get an offer you can't refuse."

Arata didn't respond. He simply placed Kenjiro's things down carefully beside one of the outdoor tables and remained standing, posture effortlessly stoic as his gaze drifted to the city below.

Kenjiro leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers idly against the table as he studied Arata, his lips curled into a smirk. The rooftop was mostly empty except for the quiet hum of conversation from the far end, where other staff members had gathered for their break. The skyline of Seon stretched endlessly beyond the glass railing, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the city.

Arata, meanwhile, stood rigidly beside the table, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket—still zipped up to hide his school uniform. His expression was unreadable, but his mind was already bracing for whatever Kenjiro was about to say next.

"Alright, kid. I'll give you a job." Kenjiro stretched his arms behind his head lazily. "But first, you gotta pass a little test."

Arata's expression didn't change. "…What kind of test?"

Kenjiro sat up, resting his elbows on the table. His sharp eyes gleamed with something between amusement and challenge. "A test of artistry, my dear apprentice."

Arata's brow twitched. "…I'm not your apprentice."

"Yet." Kenjiro corrected with a knowing grin. Then, before Arata could protest, he pointed at the skyline behind them. "Alright, let's start simple. Look at the sky. What color is it?"

Arata blinked. "…Blue."

Kenjiro narrowed his eyes. "Wrong."

Arata's patience was already thinning. "What?"

"It's not just blue, kid. Look again. What kind of blue?" Kenjiro waved a hand dramatically at the expanse above them. "Warm blue? Cool blue? Muted? Vibrant? If you had to take a picture of it, how would you describe the color?"

Arata sighed through his nose, turning his head toward the sky. He squinted slightly. It was… well, still blue. But when he looked harder, he noticed the slight gradient—the way the edges closer to the sun were paler, almost white, while the areas further from the horizon deepened into something darker.

He exhaled. "…A washed-out blue. Warmer near the sun. Darker at the top."

Kenjiro grinned, leaning forward. "Alright. Not terrible. Next question."

Arata fought the urge to roll his eyes. "There's more?"

"Of course there's more! This is a test, not a pop quiz." Kenjiro clapped his hands together and pointed toward the café behind them. "That sign over there—what's the dominant color? And don't just say red like a fool. Describe it."

Arata sighed again but looked toward the café's signage. It was red, but it wasn't a screaming, neon red. More of a—

"…Deep red. Like rust. A bit faded, probably from the sun."

Kenjiro hummed in approval. "Not bad. Now, tell me, why does the rust-red of that sign stand out against the washed-out blue of the sky?"

Arata turned to glare at him slightly. "…I don't know."

"Take a guess."

Arata exhaled sharply through his nose. This was stupid. He didn't know a damn thing about photography or art or whatever Kenjiro was trying to get at. But fine. He'd play along.

"…Because they're opposite?" he muttered after a beat.

Kenjiro's grin widened. "Bingo." He tapped his fingers on the table. "Color contrast. Complementary colors. Even if you don't know the rules, you see them. That's instinct, kid."

Arata didn't respond. He just crossed his arms, waiting for the next ridiculous question.

Kenjiro chuckled. "Alright, final round." He tilted his head toward Arata, his smirk turning almost smug. "If you had to capture this moment—this very scene—into a single photograph, what would be the focus?"

Arata froze.

The wind carried the distant sounds of the city—the occasional honk of a car horn, the murmur of people below. The afternoon sunlight reflected off the glass buildings, scattering across the rooftop in uneven patches of warmth. The café sign flickered softly in the background, its rust-red glow stubborn against the sun. And then there was Kenjiro, watching him with an amused yet serious expression, waiting.

Arata's fingers twitched slightly.

If he had to capture this moment…

His mind automatically sought out balance, shapes, contrast. The warm sun against the cold glass. The stillness of the rooftop against the restless city below. And—

His own shadow.

Stretching across the pavement, slightly distorted by the uneven tiles.

His gaze flickered slightly before he answered, his voice quieter this time. "…The shadows."

Kenjiro's expression changed, just for a second. The teasing edge softened into something unreadable before he leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose.

"Huh."

Silence stretched between them.

Arata shifted slightly. "…Did I pass?"

Kenjiro scratched his chin, pretending to think. Then, finally, he smirked and stretched his arms out. "Yep. You're hired."

Arata blinked. "That's it?"

"That's it." Kenjiro confirmed, snatching his camera bag off the table and slinging it over his shoulder.

Arata still wasn't entirely convinced. He narrowed his eyes. "What if I answered wrong?"

Kenjiro gave him a lopsided grin. "Then I'd have called you a dumbass, but I still would've hired you."

Arata stared. "…Why?"

"Because you think before you speak." Kenjiro shoved his hands into his pockets, the grin softening just a fraction. "And because I like you, kid."

Arata frowned slightly.

Kenjiro turned away before he could respond, raising a hand in a casual wave. "Alright, let's get to work, Kid."

"I'm not a kid." 

He clicked his tongue, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets as he turned to leave.

It didn't make any sense. But then again, nothing about this job—or this weird photographer—did.

But… he didn't hate it.