Chapter Text
The event is boring, they always are.
Then again, Hanma has been bored for a very, very long time.
Hanma sets his camera up, adjusts the lenses, mentally curses the lighting in the venue. Every movement predetermined, an automation he’s run through hundreds of times before.
The huge windows and natural lighting obscured by flower arrangements that would start to wilt within hours. The fake, stagnant warmth of LED lighting flooding the venue instead.
The floral arrangements, the tasteful decorations, the platters of finger food; it’s all been painted over in muted hues of yellow and beige.
Through the viewfinder, Hanma sees a swarm of dolled up wanna-be one percenters, tripping over themselves in their politeness, trying to win the attention, the favor of the head oligarch. He commands the room by power of his name alone, his reputation.
It’s his company that’s throwing the event after all.
Kisaki Masahito; the majority shareholder and CEO of a tech company with ties to both the government and the criminal underworld. He parades his wealth around like a peacock. A man that had lied and cheated his way to the top. A man that hoarded blood money without a care in the world. A man that threw charity fundraising events to paint himself as a humanitarian.
Every head in the room turns towards him, like moths to a flame. Like flies to a pile of shit.
Masahito arrives with a retinue of chairmen and their overdressed partners, and- Hanma’s eyes widen behind the lens.
The click and whir of the camera as he zooms in, the world comes sharply into focus behind the viewfinder; saturated, vibrant colors. Hanma adjusts the lens to get the perfect shot.
And he is so perfect.
Like a sculpture, like one of the muses. Hanma feels it now, the moment in which saints are touched by the divine light. Devotion without reason.
Someone steps too close to the camera, their shoulder blocking the view. Hanma unceremoniously shoves them aside, not taking his eyes off the shot. And he never wants to take his eyes off this shot.
Masahito is raising a toast, the light coming through the sparkling, clinking glasses messes with the shot. Casting watery shadows like stained glass over the most beautiful face Hanma has ever seen.
His custom fitted designer suit, his matching expensive watch, his perfectly styled hair- none of it covers the revulsion in his flint grey eyes.
Masahito toasts to his son, the youngest director in the company. Kisaki Tetta fakes a warm smile. The shutter flash goes off.
Atrophied muscles he hadn’t used in years pull his lips into a smile so wide it bares oversharp teeth. A breathless giggle bubbles up Hanma’s throat.