When I don't pose
Some people collect trophies. I collect airports. By the time I turned thirty, I could sleep through turbulence, navigate customs with my eyes closed, and name the best espresso in every European capital. My name—Hyunjin—wasn’t just in the headlines. It was the headline. If you wore something, odds are I’d worn it first. If you dreamed about making it, I’d already done it. Twice. I wasn’t just a model. I was the standard. People called me untouchable. Charisma on legs. The kind of man who could make a suit look like a religion. Fans screamed my name in languages I didn’t speak. Brands paid me to breathe near their products. But you know the funny thing about being untouchable? No one really touches you. I lived in glass rooms, walked glass runways, smiled glass smiles. And I was fine with that. I didn’t need real. Real meant unpredictable. Real meant risk. Real meant breakable. Then I stepped on her candy. That’s how it started. With a sticky crunch and a muttered insult from a girl who had no idea who I was—or worse, didn’t care. I looked at her like she was something foreign. She looked at me like I was just another arrogant guy in expensive shoes. She didn’t know yet, but she’d just cracked my glass world. And the fractures were going to spread. Fast.
When I don't pose

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