She smiled, voice low and deliberate.
"Hello, Devil. I'm Y/N Ramirez."
His blood simmered beneath the calm facade — no one had dared to challenge him like this before. A slow, dangerous smile curled at his lips.
"Ohh, Miss Ramirez, huh? Hi, Witch."
She met his gaze, unfazed, voice steady and sharp.
"So… what do you want, Mr. Devil?"
He leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
"You're choosing my outfit today."
Her brow arched, disbelief flashing for a moment.
"Why? I'm your assistant, not your stylist."
He straightened, voice low but firm.
"As you want to argue with me so much, I'm giving you a punishment — as your boss."
Y/N's POV
Okay… so now I'm choosing his outfit?
She almost rolled her eyes, but instead, a sly smile tugged at her lips.
Perfect. My time to shine.
Let's see how "Mr. Devil" handles looking like a fashion disaster on national television.
Game on, Rabin.
She strolled toward the clothing rack, pretending to study the options with care. The stylist had clearly worked hard — every outfit was perfectly matched, layered, and color-balanced.
Too perfect.
She pulled apart a neatly arranged ensemble, replacing the crisp blazer with a faded denim jacket, swapping the tailored pants for loose joggers, and topping it off with a plain, slightly wrinkled tee.
Interview look? More like late-night convenience store run.
She stepped back to admire her handiwork and bit back a grin.
Rabin Angeles,— one fashion crime at a time.
Turning to him, she held out the mismatched outfit like a gift.
"Here you go. Your look for today."
Rabin held up the outfit, eyes narrowing as he turned the wrinkled tee and joggers over in his hands.
"Oh, come on, Miss… What happened to your fashion sense?" he scoffed, a mix of disbelief and irritation lacing his voice.
She crossed her arms, expression unreadable.
"If you don't like it, feel free to call your stylist back."
She nodded toward the closed door.
"I'm sure they'd love to fix it for you."
He stared at her for a beat — was she serious? The audacity. The nerve.
But she wasn't backing down. Not even blinking.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
Oh, she was dangerous.
She sat on the makeup chair, pretending to scroll on her phone while watching him through the mirror. Rabin emerged from the dressing area—wearing her outfit choice.
And damn it—he looked fine.
She rolled her eyes. Why does he look good in everything? Ugh. That's unfair.
He didn't say anything. Just smirked at her in the mirror and sat down next to her, acting like he didn't just rebel against his whole style team.
"I wore it," he said under his breath.
"I noticed," she replied. "Still hate you."
"Likewise."
Just then—
BANG!!
The stylist slammed the door open like a hurricane.
"WHOTT THE F*CKZZZ?!" she screeched.
"WHO mismatched my outfits?! Who dared—who, why—WHAT is that PLAID?! That shirt is for the after-party, not the actual shoot!! Aghhhh!!"
She marched toward Rabin like a mother discovering her kid ruined a Gucci jacket with crayons.
"Do you understand how much time I spent curating your vibe today?! You were supposed to be 'Neo-Retro Minimalist Rockstar,' and now you look like a—like a thrifted skateboarder with commitment issues!"
Y/N bit the inside of her cheek to hold back laughter.
Rabin just shrugged, totally unbothered. "Relax. It's still me inside the outfit. People will scream anyway."
The stylist turned toward Y/N slowly. "You."
Y/N blinked. "Me?"
"You touched the rack, didn't you?"
"Nooo," she replied sweetly. "I repaired the vibe."
The stylist was about to explode again when the producer peeked in.
"We're rolling in 10! Rabin, you're up!"
And just like that, war had to wait. Rabin stood up, adjusted his chain, and smirked at both women.
"Let's go melt the camera."
As he left, Y/N leaned over to the stylist and whispered, "You should thank me later. He actually looks like a human now."
INT. STUDIO SET – DAY
The lights dimmed slightly as the crew bustled for final checks.
Director: "Okay, set done?"
Set Manager (with headset): "Done!"
Director: "Interviewer ready?"
Interviewer (fixing her mic): "Ready."
Director (louder): "Okay—lights, camera… ACTION!"
The camera light blinked red.
Cue entrance.
Door opens.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Rabin's boots echoed across the polished floor of the set. He stepped into the light, effortlessly cool in the outfit Y/N chose, hands tucked in his pockets like he owned the world.
A low beat played in the background, just enough to build drama. He didn't look at the interviewer immediately. He looked into the camera.
Straight into the audience's soul.
Then—he smiled. The classic Rabin Angeles smile.
That same grin on every billboard, ad, perfume commercial, and 30 million Instagram posts. But to Y/N, watching from the side, it looked faker than ever.
Interviewer (cheerful): "Welcome, Rabin! Always a pleasure to have you here."
Rabin (smirking): "Pleasure's mine. You know I love a good spotlight."
The audience (studio staff and camera crew) chuckled softly.
Interviewer: "Congratulations on the Global Icon Award! How does it feel to represent an entire generation?"
He leaned forward slightly, cocking his head.
Rabin: "Heavy. But I've got broad shoulders."
The crew laughed again.
Y/N rolled her eyes from the monitor screen. Oh, please. If they knew how much caffeine and tantrums it took to get him out of bed this morning…
Rabin leaned back on the chair, flashing his signature smile at the camera. The one where he squints his eyes just slightly and tilts his head—ugh.
Rabin: "To my fans watching right now—mwah! I love you more than sleep and coffee combined."
Then, out of nowhere, he throws a peace sign… and winks.
"Aegyo time!" he says, using that high-pitched cutesy voice.
He makes a heart with his fingers. "Saranghae~!"
The crew behind the cameras tried not to laugh. Even the interviewer chuckled, clearly eating it up.
I nearly gagged.
Seriously? That's the man who made me carry his wet towel like I'm his laundry basket?
Cringe. Cringe. Triple cringe.
And yet…
Behind all that fan service, all that fake sunshine, there was something else.
His eyes didn't smile. Not really.
They stayed cold—like tinted glass you can't quite see through.
It hit me.
There was something wrong in that smile.
Then it happened.
For just one second—he looked away from the interviewer, the lights, the cameras—and his eyes met mine.
One second. Maybe less. But it burned.
We locked eyes.
I froze.
My breath got caught somewhere between my chest and throat.
It wasn't just cold.
It was something else—like a warning. Like he knew.
Knew I was watching. Knew I didn't buy his act.
Knew I was planning something.
He tilted his head slightly. A tiny smirk played on his lips. But the eyes? Dead serious.
Interviewer (smiling):
"And then—so Rabin," she chuckled, glancing at her cue cards, "thank you so much for coming to the show. Always a pleasure to have the nation's favorite heartthrob on the couch."
Rabin (grinning):
"The pleasure is mutual. Thanks for tolerating me."
The studio echoed with polite laughter and applause.
Director (over headset):
"Annnd… Wrap up!!! That's a cut, everyone!"
The lights shifted. The cameras powered down.
Instantly, the energy dropped.
The charm vanished from Rabin's face like someone flipped a switch. His smile faded, posture relaxed—but not in a friendly way. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, rubbing his hands together slowly.
The crew began moving around, packing up lights and coiling wires. The stylist was already fussing about the ruined outfit.
Rabin stood up casually and walked toward Y/N.
Too casually.
She pretended to check something on her clipboard.
He stopped right in front of her.
Close.
Rabin (low voice):
"You enjoying the show, Miss Fashion Police?"
She looked up, raising an eyebrow.
"You tell me. You wore the outfit."
He chuckled, but his eyes didn't.
He leaned a little closer.
Rabin:
"You like my smile, right?"
Y/N blinked, backing up a centimeter too late.
Y/N:
"Geeshhh… Don't flatter yourself. I've seen better smiles on cartoon villains."
He tilted his head, amused. That damn smirk curled on his lips again—the one he knew worked on every camera, every crowd, every screaming fan.
Rabin:
"Cartoon villain, huh?"
He grinned wide again, full teeth, exaggerating the expression like a parody of himself.
"Like this?"
She squinted like she was physically in pain.
Y/N:
"Ew. Stop. That's illegal."
He stepped back slowly, still watching her with a gleam in his eye.
Rabin:
"Oh no, don't tell me you're blushing. You are, aren't you?"
He leaned closer again.
"Do I make you nervous?"
Y/N (flatly):
"Only in the way horror movies do."
He laughed—genuinely this time, and she hated how rich it sounded.
Then he gave her one last smug wink.
Rabin:
"Don't worry. I'll save the real smile for when you're brave enough to look a little longer."
And with that, he walked off, back to his dressing room.
Y/N stood there, staring at the space he left behind.
What the hell just happened?