Chapter Text
The moon hangs high tonight, luminous and indifferent, casting a pale silver sheen over the sprawling city. Stars flicker quietly above, barely visible through the urban haze. Below, the streets buzz with the usual flow of the late-night traffic—cars humming past, buses grumbling down their routes, neon lights bleeding into the dark.
It’s just another ordinary night, or so it seems. Somewhere in a quiet corner of this ever-wakeful city, the ordinary is being broken. The neighborhood is usually the kind that sleeps early. But not tonight.
A crowd has gathered outside a squat, grey building, eyes fixed on the flashing lights that reflect off the windows like ghostly flares. Flashing red and blue lights reflect off the nearby windows, yellow police tape flutters in the breeze, cordoning off the area—a glaring symbol that something unspeakable has happened inside.
Indeed, something terrible has happened.
Deep within the building, far past the hallways that echo only silence, in a room most tenants barely knew existed, a corpse has been found—or rather, what’s left of it. Mutilated beyond recognition. The body has been split open from the abdomen, its contents now painting the room in viscera and dark crimson. A large portion of flesh is simply gone—ripped away or carved out, no one’s sure yet. The arms lie several feet away, disconnected at the shoulders, the hands missing multiple fingers as if someone took them for souvenirs. The legs are nowhere to be found, vanished entirely from the crime scene, as if they were never part of the body to begin with.
But the most chilling part is the head.
Hung like a sick joke on the door knob, sealed in a crinkled plastic bag like takeout left for someone to find. The eyes have been scooped open from the sockets, the mouth left frozen in a wide, grotesque gape. Blood paints every surface, dried and fresh, splattered and pooled.
It’s the kind of sight that leaves even the seasoned officers shifting uncomfortably in their boots.
Word has already spread beyond the tape. Whispers ripple through the crowd: it’s a public figure. A rising star. A young fashion designer who recently turned heads at New York Fashion Week. Some shake their heads in disbelief. Others snap photos over each other’s shoulders, hungry for gore. A few people pray quietly. But most are just here for the spectacle.
Freodore, meanwhile, is already slipping through the cracks in the crowd, sidestepping shoulders and ducking around rubberneckers, his eyes fixed on the entrance of the building. Not even a flicker of hesitation crosses his face. He’s not one of the weak-hearted. Not with a notepad clutched in one hand and a pen already uncapped in the other. He’s ready to take down details—bloody, brutal, and exclusive if he’s lucky.
He’s already drafting the opening lines of his article in his head. A high profile murder. A mutilated corpse. A young designer snatched from the peak of fame. The kind of story that makes headlines scream.
If he can score direct quotes from the police—or better yet, glimpse of the scene with his own eyes—it’ll be gold.
“I’m a reporter,” Freo says, approaching the nearest officer with the most innocent face he can muster. “Can you let me inside?”
He already knows the answer, of course. He isn’t new to this. Years of covering city crime has taught him that unless you are tight with someone behind the tape—or packing a bribe—they will not so much as let you peek through a crack in the door.
But still, it never hurts to try. Just in case.
The officer looks him up and down with thinly veiled amusement before deadpanning, “No.”
The answer is exactly what Freo has expected, but that doesn’t mean he’s giving up. If he can’t get through the front door, then he’ll find another way in. Figuratively, at least. The officer might not grant him access to the scene, but maybe he could squeeze out a detail or two. Enough to turn speculation into substance for his next article,
“Fine,” Freo says, raising both hands in surrender, then slipping one into his pocket. “But can you at least give me some details about the murder?”
He fishes out a slightly crumpled business card and presents it with a flick of his wrist. “Just in case you don’t believe me. Name’s Freodore, from Inkwave.”
The officer takes the card, gives it a bored once-over, and lets out a sigh so deep it sounds like it came from the bottom of his soul. He’s probably dealt with five reporters already tonight, maybe more. Or maybe he’s just tired of everything.
”Look,” the officer says, voiced edged with exhaustion. “I know you’re just doing your job, but we’re doing ours too. And we’re already neck-deep over here.”
Still, after a brief pause, he pulls something from his pocket and hands it to Freo—a printed photo, slightly grainy but clear enough to show the mutilation. It’s a snapshot from the crime scene. No watermark. No briefing. Just raw horror.
”Here. That’s all I can give you. Now scram.”
Freo’s lips curl into a smile. This is exactly what he needs. He never expected to be let inside, but a crime scene photo? That is more than good enough. A single image could frame the whole story.
”Appreciate it,” he says, already tucking the photo away.
He disappears back into the crowd, his mind already whirring. He’s got a headline forming. A photo to anchor it. Now all he needs are a few voices from the crowd, someone who saw or heard something—anything.
It’s shaping up to be a long, caffeine-fueled night.
But he’s not complaining. He loves this. He lives for this. The rush, the truth, the chase, and when a case this high-profile hits the city, Inkwave will be the first paper to break it. He’ll make sure of it, and he’s not about to let anyone else beat him to the punch.
Because he’s not just dedicated.
He’s relentless.
With no new leads to chase and the crowd thinning out fast, Freo decides it’s time to head back to the office. The adrenaline that had carried him through the night has begun to fade, replaced by the quiet pressure of a looming deadline. The story needs to be written, polished, and submitted before dawn if he wants to publish it as soon as possible.
When he arrives, the newsroom isn’t empty, but it might as well be. A few half-awake souls are hunched over keyboards, the glow of monitors reflected in their tired eyes. They’re probably chasing their own breaking stories, trying to beat the clock like he is. It’s nothing unusual in this industry—speed is everything. If you don’t deliver the news fast enough, it becomes irrelevant.
Freo offers a quick nod to those he passes, mutters a half-hearted “hey” and slips back to his desk, which is cluttered with old drafts, printed notes, and more pens than anyone really needs. He powers on his PC, the screen flickering to life, and wastes no time. Fingers to keys. Focus locked in.
The room is filled with the soft, rhythmic clatter of typing. No one’s talking. No one’s laughing. It’s the kind of silence that only exists in a newsroom past midnight—tired but electric, every second heavy with purpose. Everyone is too focused on their own tasks to talk, and Freo is grateful for the silence. He needs every bit of concentration he can get.
Hours slip by unnoticed. The night gives way to the first blush of morning, sunlight bleeding in through the windows to replace the dimness of moon and stars. Freo leans back in his chair, pinches the bridge of his nose, and glances toward the window. He stretches slowly, letting out a low, tired “nngrh” as his joints crack one by one.
He’s written the bones of the piece. All the vital points are there. Names. Scene. Public reaction. All that’s left it to clean it up and send it to his editor for a quick once-over before it hits the site.
Still… something nags at him.
It’s subtle, like a loose thread he can’t quite see. He flips through his notes again. Rereads a few lines of his drafts. Frowns. The quotes he got from the crowd are shallow, speculative. The photo helps, but without context, it’s just shock value. And the police gave him next to nothing.
He knows there’ll be a press conference later—official updates, cleaned-up statements. The kind of details anyone can get. But Freo doesn’t want the version they feed the public. He wants the story behind the story. The truth hiding between the lines.
First things first—coffee.
Freo’s been running on fumes all night. The rush of chasing leads and hammering out a half-decent draft carried him through the worst of it, but now the crush is coming. He needs caffeine. He hasn’t had a cup in hours. Maybe he’ll take a quick nap afterward—just enough to reset before heading to the police station for the press conference.
He gets up from his desk and makes his way to the pantry, nodding at a few colleagues who’ve just started their shifts. Unlike him, they’ve actually gone home last night and gotten some sleep. Among them is Reimu Endou, a reporter from the showbiz section, and Freo’s closest friend at the company.
“Morning,” she says, immediately narrowing her eyes. “Don’t tell me you stayed overnight again.”
Freo gives her a small nod. That’s all she needs.
Reimu groans, rubbing her temples like it’s physically painful to see him like this, already slipping into the familiar role of his concerned friend. “Man, you’ve really gotta stop doing that. You know it’s unhealthy, right? Seriously, this is textbook burnout. Go home. Sleep in your bed like a functioning adult.”
He doesn’t respond, just gives her a tired shrug as he grabs a mug.
Reimu exhales sharply, clearly giving up, and drops the topic. She knows he won’t change. Instead, she switches gears. “So, what’s the case this time?”
“Homicide,” Freo answers simply. As the coffee brews, he pulls up a photo on his phone—an older one, showing the victim on vacation, smiling in sunglasses. “You probably know him, an up-and-coming designer. I heard he was on the rise in the industry.”
Reimu squints at the image, then gasps, her eyes widening.
”Oh, shit, I know him! He’s been blowing up lately—super talented, very in with the fashion crowd. Wait—he’s dead?! What the hell… I literally just saw him last week at Kaelix Debonair’s birthday party!”
Freo blinks. The name doesn’t register. He assumes it’s just another celebrity. Famous people showing up at other famous people’s parties—it’s nothing special. Not headline material.
He pulls out the crime scene photo next, the one the officer gave him the night before, and hands it over.
“It’s a brutal scene,” he murmurs as she studies the image.
Reimu falls quiet. Her brows furrow as her gaze locks on a specific detail.
”Hold on,” she says, her fingers tapping the photo, pointing to the victim’s severed wrist. “That bracelet—he never took it off. I didn’t think they were that close.”
Freo raises an eyebrow, a prickle of something sharp crawling up his spine. “What do you mean?”
Reimu scrolls through her phone, her brows slightly furrowed in thought, until she finds what she’s looking for. She holds out the screen to Freo, revealing a photo of a tall man wearing a striking silver bracelet—sleek and high-end—inlaid with an eight-pointed star diamond that gleams like it has secrets of its own. Even at a glance, it’s clear this bracelet wasn’t pulled off a store shelf. It was custom-made—an accessory tailored to its owner’s taste. It wasn’t something you could buy, even with money.
“See this? That bracelet was made specifically for Kaelix,” Reimu explains. “It’s custom. One of a kind. He only gives them to people he’s really close with. Like, inner-circle close. You don’t get one of these unless you’ve earned his full trust.”
She leans back slightly.
”Plenty of celebrities would kill to be in that circle—seriously, kill. But Kaelix? He’s super picky. So the fact that that designer got one… that’s a big deal. I’m honestly surprised he even managed it. Guess it doesn’t matter now, though. He’s dead.”
Freo hums softly, gaze lingering on the photo of the bracelet. Something clicks in his brain. If the victim was that close to Kaelix Debonair, then maybe—just maybe—this Kaelix knows something. Something subtle. Something that the police haven’t picked up on yet.
“Thanks, Reimu,” he says, grabbing his coffee. “I’m heading back to my desk.”
She watches him go, the determination already etched across his face. With a shake of her head, she calls after him, half-exasperated, half-fond. “Don’t push yourself too hard! Get some actual rest, Freo!”
Freo doesn’t answer Reimu. He’s already walking back to his desk, coffee in hand, brain spinning. He sits down, sets his mug down, and boots his computer again. There’s someone he needs to look up—someone who’s just moved to the center of his investigation: Kaelix Debonair.
A few keystrokes and the screen floods with images—fashion shoots, runway clips, interviews with glossy titles. Headlines describe Kaelix as a veteran in the fashion industry. A supermodel. He’s got years of experience under his belt, and his striking looks paired with effortless charisma in front of the camera have launched him to global stardom, putting him in demand everywhere. Whether it’s a local clothing label or a top-tier luxury house, brands will wait for him—line up, even—just to get his name on their campaign.
Everything he wears sells out within days. That’s how much influence Kaelix Debonair has.
Freo skims through his wikipedia page, watching the details pile up. Kaelix spends most of his time overseas, especially during Fashion Week season. New York, Paris, Milan, Tokyo—he hops between countries like they’re local stops on a bus route. Even when he’s back in the country, it’s only for brief stretches. A week at most, then he’s off again to attend the next big event.
He’s high-profile. Elusive. In constant motion.
Freo leans back slightly in his chair, tapping his fingers against his mug. How had someone this famous slipped under his radar until now? Maybe he’s just been too buried in crime reports and politics to notice. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Now he knows who Kaelix is, and more importantly, how closely he was tied to the victim.
He just needs one thing now: a way to talk to him.
Set up a meeting. Lure him into a conversation about the victim. Get something that hasn’t been scripted, sanitized, or filtered through PR.
The catch? Someone that famous just doesn’t pick up the phone for strangers.
He stares at the screen, the cursor blinking like it’s waiting for him to figure it out. How does a crime reporter get an untouchable model to sit down and talk?
There has to be a way.
The next day, after publishing the official police statement on the site, Freo makes his way to Kaelix’s agency—a sleek, high-rise in the heart of the city. Glass panels gleam under the sunlight, and the lobby alone radiates luxury. It’s exactly the kind of building you’d expect from a company that represents one of the most in-demand models on the planet.
Freo had already tried the polite route. He’d gotten Kaelix’s manager’s number from Reimu and made several calls, but none of them were returned. Not a single message acknowledged. Left with no other option, he decided to show up in person. It’s a long shot, sure—he doubts someone like Kaelix is even in the country, let alone at the office—but Freo has learned that sometimes persistence pays off.
Maybe, just maybe, today is his lucky day.
Clinging to that sliver of hope, he approaches the front desk with confidence, adjusting his posture and flashes a small, harmless smile, like someone on a casual errand—not a reporter poking his nose where it probably doesn’t belong.
“Hello,” he says, softening his voice into something friendly—almost innocent. “I’m here to interview Kaelix Debonair.”
The receptionists blink, then glance at each other in quiet confusion. Their expressions shift—uncertain, cautious—but Freo keeps his face neutral, as if this is all perfectly normal.
“Um,” one of the women begins, “Do you have an appointment with him?”
”No,” Freo replies, without missing a beat.
The receptionist pauses, then leans toward her colleague, whispering something low. Freo doesn’t need to strain to hear it—he can already guess what they’re talking about: who the hell does this guy think he is?
Some random reporter walks in off the street, asking to speak to Kaelix Debonair—no appointment, no credentials waved, just raw nerves. They probably think he’s lost his mind.
They glance at him, trying to be discreet, but the amusement in their eyes are clear. One of them clears her throat and offers him a stiff, rehearsed smile.
”We’re very sorry,” she says, polite but firm. “You’ll need to book an appointment if you’d like to interview Mr. Debonair. And unfortunately, he’s currently overseas for an event.”
Of course he is.
Freo returns the smile, just as politely. “I see. I’ll make sure to book ahead next time. Thanks for your help.”
He walks out without waiting for a response, the lobby doors closing behind him with a soft hiss. Outside, he stops on the sidewalk, staring down at his shoes as the city bustles around him. He runs a hand through his hair and scratches at the back of his head, frustrated.
No call back from the manager. No way past the agency. And now he’s back to square one. How in the world is he supposed to get to Kaelix if the guy’s halfway across the globe and surrounded by handlers like royalty?
Then, a soft ding—a message notification lights up on his phone screen.
Seible. His longtime friend.
Furi-chan~! Want to hang out tonight? It’s been a while!
Freo stares at the message for a second, then considers it. It really has been a while since he last saw Seible. He’s tempted to decline—there’s still the article to finish, leads to chase—but without any new angle, he’s stalled. Maybe a break would do him good. Letting loose for a few hours might even spark something useful.
He types his reply.
Sure.
Seconds later, another message pings in.
Yaaaay~! See you at the usual place, then (੭˃ᴗ˂)੭
Freo slips the phone back into his pocket. Maybe tonight won’t be a waste after all.
“Kaelix Debonair? Who’s that?” Seible asks, blinking at Freo over the rim of his glass as they sit together at their usual bar.
Freo stares at him for a beat, already wondering why he even tried.
He should’ve known better. Seible is just as clueless as he is when it comes to celebrities—maybe even worse. This is a man who didn’t know who Olivia Rodrigo was, even after Driver’s License had been playing non-stop everywhere. A man who pretends to understand internet slang but clearly doesn’t, and when pressed, simply doubles down and gaslights everyone around him into thinking they’re the ones who are wrong.
Of course he wouldn’t know Kaelix Debonair.
Freo takes a sip of his drink and mutters, “Never mind.”
”Aw, come on, Furi-chan,” Seible whines, nudging Freo with his elbow. “I might not know who this Kaelix guy is, but I can still help, can’t I? What happened to trust? I’m your best friend.”
Freo sighs, already feeling the regret settle in his bones. But he gives in, and begins explaining the situation—how he’s been trying to reach Kaelix Debonair, the famously elusive model tied to the murder case, and how every attempt so far has hit a wall. Kaelix is simply too high-profile. Too unreachable.
”If you somehow know a way I can get in touch with someone like that,” Freo finishes, “I’d genuinely appreciate it.”
Seible strokes his chin like a fake philosopher, lips pursed in exaggerated thought. Then, as if struck by divine revelation, he lifts his index finger toward the ceiling.
”Just message him on Instagram!” he declares proudly, jabbing at the bright pink icon on his screen. “He’s a celebrity, right? I know he has one. He has to.”
Freo stares. Against all odds, that… isn’t terrible advice.
For once, Seible might’ve had a good idea. Freo doesn’t use Instagram—doesn’t even have the app—but if it’s for work, he can make an exception. It’s not like it’ll hurt to try. There’s no guarantee Kaelix will read it, let alone reply, but still… it’s something.
“That could work,” he admits. Then adds with a grimace, “I just don’t know how to make him interested enough to actually respond.”
Seible leans in, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Is he, uh… into men?”
Freo blinks, caught off guard. “Erm… I don’t know. I don’t think he’s ever announced his sexuality,” he answers, confused. “Why do you ask? What do you mean?”
The look Seible gives him says everything. It isn’t just the raised brow or the grin—it is the slow, shameless scan of Freo’s entire body, like he is mentally dressing him up for a mission he doesn’t sign up for. Freo knows that look. He’s seen it before. And it never ends well.
His gut screams abort. His brain begs him to stop whatever his friend is planning. Still, curiosity wins. Against his better judgment, he waits.
“Well,” Seible begins, voice all too casual. “If he’s into men… then we just need to make your profile attractive enough for him to be interested. You know, like, sexually.”
Freo groans. He should’ve stopped this earlier.
Too late now. Seible is already yanking Freo’s phone out of his hand, moving faster than any time Freo had ever seen him in real life. He taps through the app store like he’s done this twenty times before, already installing Instagram and setting up a new account.
”What should your username be?” Seible hums. “We need something eye-catching. Maybe… ParryPrince2434? You are cracked at video games.”
Freo snatches the phone back before Seible can type a single character. “Something normal, please,” he mutters, already typing out a plain, professional-sounding username. He hits confirm and sighs.
He didn’t come here to relive his high school cringe era. This isn’t for thirst-trapping. He just wants to message Kaelix and maybe get a reply. Nothing more.
But of course, Seible doesn’t back down so easily.
He grabs Freo’s phone again, tapping open the camera app like it’s second nature. “You should at least make your profile picture attractive,” he says, adjusting the angle like a seasoned stylist. “You never know might catch his eye.”
Freo exhales. “Says the guy who thought Olivia Rodrigo was a scientist.”
”Shush,” Seible says, all too smug. “You’ve got the face, Furi-chan. You just don’t know how to work it yet. Hold your drink. Pretend I’m a hot guy you’re trying to impress on a first date.”
“That’s a big ask,” Freo mutters, but does as he‘s told. He leans on the table, lifts his glass, and gives the camera the best smile he can muster—trying to channel flirty and approachable while his soul quietly leaves his body.
“I don’t even know if I’m doing this right,” he says, uncertain.
”If I say you look good, then trust me—you do,” Seible says with the confidence of a man who has never once doubted himself in front of a mirror.
Freo huffs a small laugh, resigning himself to whatever chaos this is, as Seible snaps the pic, eyes narrowing as he studies the result. “Hmm… you’ve got the eyes. The lighting’s nice. But something’s missing.”
He eyes Freo like an artist contemplating a sculpture. Then suddenly, he leans forward and starts unbuttoning the top of Freo’s shirt.
Freo instinctively pulls back. “Okay. What are you doing?”
“Making you look more seductive,” Seible replies like it’s the most logical thing in the world. “Trust me—open collar, soft lighting, flirty smile. That’s the formula.”
Freo stares, half-exasperated. But in the end, he leans back into the pose. Because if this somehow gets him a reply from Kaelix Debonair, then fine. Let the chaos continue.
And that’s how the two men end up spending a solid thirty minutes posing and snapping photos.
Seible, naturally, takes the role of creative director far too seriously—adjusting lighting angles with his phone, coaching Freo’s expressions, and rejecting at least a dozen of shots with dramatic flair. Freo just lets it happen, quietly resigned.
Once Seible decides they have enough, he opens the gallery and scrolls through the camera roll, eyes narrowed with focus, before landing on one picture and lighting up. “Okay. This one is the winner.”
He turns the phone to show Freo.
It’s a picture of him reclining on one elbow, head tilted, lips parted in the faintest ghost of a smirk. His eyes are heavy-lidded, just enough to seem casual and confident, and one hand lazily holds his glass of alcohol.
“That’s actually not bad,” Freo admits.
Seible smirks. “Understatement of the year,” he says, uploading it as Freo’s profile picture without hesitation. “Now we just need to figure out what to say.”
He taps open Kaelix’s Instagram profile, and the follower count immediately jumps out—ten million. Not exactly surprising, given his fame.
Freo leans in, already thinking. “Okay, give me my phone,” he says, reaching for it. “I’ve got an idea.”
He types quickly, crafting a message with just the right tone, professional, polite and just vague enough to not raise any flags.
Hello. My name is Freodore from Fashion Magazine Be You. I know this is ridiculous of me to come to your DMs, but I’d really like to chat and have an interview with you for an upcoming spread I have in mind. I’ll be waiting for your reply if you’re ever interested.
He reads it over, silently thanking his company for publishing a fashion magazine on top of a daily newspaper so he doesn’t need to completely lie to the model.
Then, after a while, he presses the send button. The waiting game has finally begun. Will Kaelix ever respond? Freo has no idea. All he can do is hope.
Beside him, Seible gives him a firm pat on the back. “Don’t worry. He’ll respond, Furi-chan. You look absolutely gorgeous. I’d be shocked if he doesn’t.”
Freo rolls his eyes but smiles.
For all his nonsense, Freo’s grateful. It’s moments like these—where everything feels like a mess but somehow still hopeful—that reminds him why having Seible around makes all the difference.
Several days pass.
Still no reply from Kaelix.
Freo doesn’t expect much—he knows how things work. Kaelix has ten million followers, a schedule packed tighter than airport security, and probably gets more creepy DMs in an hour than Freo gets emails in a month. It’s only natural for someone like him to ignore messages for privacy and safety reasons.
It all makes sense.
And yet, despite expecting it, Freo still feels a sting of disappointment. He was hoping Kaelix might be the key to cracking this case open. There’s a gut feeling he can’t shake—one that tells him Kaelix knows something. Something the police don’t.
Freo stares at his inbox for a moment longer, then sighs and turns to his monitor, ready to work on a completely unrelated article—another fluff piece his editor assigned last minute—when a familiar ding vibrates from his phone.
Freo doesn’t react at first. Probably just another internal message, maybe from his editor. Or worse, Reimu sending memes about the guy who tried to break into a recording studio wearing fishnets.
But then he catches the name.
Kaelix Debonair.
He’s replied.
Freo grabs his phone at lightning speed, heart thudding as he opens the Instagram app and taps on the DM notification.
I need a solid proof if you’re legit. Send me a selfie of you, possibly when working.
Freo blinks. His breath catches.
That’s it?
He stares at the message, processing it. It’s a reasonable response—Kaelix is being cautious. Freo never attached any credentials in his original message. No name card. No ID. No press badge photo. Nothing.
Still… it’s a little odd.
Why a selfie? Wouldn’t a press ID be more official? A link to his published article? A headshot with his name tag? But instead, Kaelix wants a photo of him… working. Since when is a selfie the go-to way to verify someone’s professional status?
Despite the dozen questions swirling in his head, Freo does what Kaelix asks.
He flips open the camera app, switches to selfie mode, and angles it just right. The lightning’s not too bad—his desk lamp gives him that warm, soft-glow look. He leans slightly to one side, casual but focused, the clutter of his desk in the background—notes and a half-drunk cup of coffee—adding a dash of authenticity. He snaps a quick photo and examines it closely.
Not too staged. Not too pouty. Just enough effort.
Good enough.
Then, for good measure, he attaches a photo of his ID—because even he wouldn’t believe a journalist who just sent a selfie with no credentials—and sends both off to Kaelix.
This time, the response comes almost immediately.
Beautiful.
Freo stares at the word.
A beat passes.
”…Huh.”
He furrows his brow, still staring at the message on the screen. That’s… not the kind of verification he was expecting. It’s vague. Intimate, even. Was Seible right about Kaelix being into men?
He barely has time to process it before another message comes in.
So… what do you need from me, Mr. Journalist? Are you truly contacting me just to get an interview with me?
Freo swallows hard. The phrasing—it feels like Kaelix is testing him. Like he knows there’s more to the story. And… well, he’s not wrong. But Freo can’t afford to blow this.
He takes a breath, thinking through his options, and then types back.
I’m actually new to fashion journalism, and my boss assigned me a feature piece about a big name in the industry. You were the first person who came to mind, Mr. Debonair, because you’re everywhere, and honestly, the most famous model alive right now.
It’s not exactly the truth, but it’s close enough to pass. If this gets him a chance to talk to Kaelix in person, it’ll be worth it. He just hopes the model doesn’t see through the cracks.
Kaelix doesn’t reply right away this time.
Freo doesn’t mind. He assumes the man’s probably caught up with work, or traveling again—someone like Kaelix is probably bouncing between shoots, runways and red carpets, not sitting around waiting to text back some nosy journalist.
So instead of obsessively checking his phone, Freo returns to his assignments, telling himself that at least he got a response. That alone is a win. Besides, he’s good at waiting. He’s done far more for far less.
And sure enough, just as he’s packing up for the day, his phone lights up. A reply from Kaelix.
Sorry, just landed at the airport. Alright, let’s meet, then. I’m free tomorrow—more like, only free tomorrow—so if you’d like, we can meet up in this restaurant and have a nice, little chat :) Just the two of us.
Freo’s eyes linger on that last line.
Just the two of us. Was that… necessary?
He brushes the thought aside for now. What matters is that he’s finally locked in a meeting. After several days of dead ends, he has a direct line to someone who might hold a vital clue in the murder case. He can’t waste this.
He shuts down his computer and grabs his bag, slings it over his shoulder, and heads out of the office with renewed focus, already planning out his questions.
Tomorrow, he’ll meet Kaelix Debonair.
The restaurant Kaelix suggested is exactly what Freo would expect from someone of his status.
Perched on the top floor of a sleek skyscraper, it boasts a panoramic view of the city at night—neon lights flickering below, cars like toy trains crawling through glowing roads. From what he’s heard, the place operates strictly by reservation, and not just any reservation. The restaurant is infamously selective with its clientele.
No one knows exactly what the criteria are, but one thing’s certain: you need a certain level of status—wealth, fame, or influence—to even step foot inside. To add to that, the price alone is enough to make people weep. A single course probably costs more than what an ordinary citizen makes in a week.
So, naturally, Freo tries to dress the part.
He digs out a black and white suit that’s been sitting untouched in the back of his closet—still crisp, but stiff with disuse. He rarely has a reason to wear it. His job keeps him crawling through back alleys, interviewing shaken witnesses and documenting crime scenes. Glamour is rarely on the agenda.
It’s a far cry from his usual scene, but if he wants Kaelix to take him seriously—and maybe open up—he needs to at least look like he belongs.
The moment he mentions Kaelix’s name at the front, one of the waiters immediately lights up and gestures for him to follow.
“Mr. Debonair will be here shortly. Please wait in the meantime,” the waiter says with a courteous nod, leading him through the sleek, dimly lit interior to a private room tucked away in the far corner of the restaurant.
Freo steps inside, quietly taking it all in.
Even in a place where every guest likely holds some kind of social clout, it makes sense that someone like Kaelix would still value privacy. Fame doesn’t blend in, not even here.
The private room is striking. The walls are deep red, adorned with artful gold strokes of dragons and blooming flowers. There’s a quiet elegance to it, an expensive kind of restraint. The window isn’t like the wide-open ones outside—it’s stylized, more ornamental, with a gold-framed lattice that mimics traditional Japanese shoji screens. Everything in the room hums money and international taste.
He sits down, back a little too straight, and tries not to fidget.
This whole setting feels too polished, too curated. Not like the cafes or police stations he’s used to meeting sources in. Here, even the silence feels expensive.
He takes out his notebook, flipping to the questions he drafted the night before. The ones about fashion trends, modeling techniques, personal branding—just enough to sound legit. If Kaelix is suspicious, he won’t find anything off at first glance.
But the real goal still sits beneath it all: the dead designer. The man with the bracelet. The mutilated body.
Freo’s prepared a question to steer the conversation that way—casually, naturally. But even now, he can’t tell if it’s subtle enough. One wrong move, and the whole thing might collapse.
Freo taps the edge of his pen thoughtfully, mentally rehearsing how he’ll steer the conversation when he hears voices from the corridor. One is the familiar tone of the waiter how had led him here—a tone noticeably brighter, laced with excitement—and alongside it, the confident murmur of a young man, likely a regular in these upscale confines.
All of a sudden, a single phrase cuts through the ambient murmur
”Mr. Debonair.”
In that instant, everything shifts.
Freo instinctively straightens in his seat, gaze fixed on the door just as it begins to slide open.
There he is.
Kaelix Debonair. Just as stunning as the internet photos—more, even. He enters the room with an effortless grace, a cascade of his silver hair partly swept behind his ear, with the remainder artfully framing his sculpted face. His bright blue eyes, almost hypnotic in their intensity, are hidden behind a pair of purple-tinted sunglasses—a deliberate shield, perhaps, against too much scrutiny. Even from a distance, they exude a magnetic allure.
Kaelix wears a meticulously pressed white shirt underneath a long black coat, paired casually with denim jeans. His ensemble exudes an understated cool that starkly contrasts with Freo’s attire. After a brief exchange with the waiter, Kaelix turns his attention to Freo, who is already seated and waiting.
Their eyes meet.
He smiles.
”Hello.”