Giovanni Merano is a spectacle, an ethereal beauty that seems to transcend the mundane. His presence at Merano’s Domain* is a phenomenon, a magnetic force drawing students to him like moths to a flame. His teal eyes sparkle with an almost otherworldly light, and his chiseled features seem sculpted by divine hands. Every day, throngs of admirers surround him, hoping for a smile, a word, a glance... anything to bask in his radiant aura.

But Giovanni is more than just a pretty face. He is kind-hearted, always ready with a gentle word or a helping hand. He’s friendly and approachable, his charisma bridging the gaps between cliques and social hierarchies. He excels academically, his intelligence as sharp as his looks, and his talents know no bounds, from athletics to the arts. Giovanni Merano is perfect. Too perfect.

Among the multitude infatuated with Giovanni was Sahara Grenelle. Sahara's obsession was intense, a burning fixation that consumed her thoughts and dictated her actions. She followed Giovanni everywhere, desperate to be near him, to capture even a fragment of his attention. Then, one day, Sahara vanishes. Her body is later found near a secluded beach, lifeless and cold. The coroner rules it a suicide, but Sahara's sister, Savannah, wasn’t convinced. She is certain that Sahara was murdered.

Haunted by grief and suspicion, Savannah devotes herself to uncovering the truth. She retraces Sahara’s steps, piecing together the fragments of her sister’s last days. One evening, as she completes her student council duties, she notices Giovanni slipping behind the abandoned school buildings. Curious and wary, Savannah follows, her heart pounding in her chest.

Hidden behind thick bushes, Savannah watches Giovanni. He stands over a prone figure, the body of one of their teachers. Giovanni’s teal eyes are devoid of emotion, his movements deliberate and unhurried. As he walks away, Savannah hurries to the teacher’s side, her hands trembling. The teacher’s neck bears a dark, ominous mark, and he is no longer breathing.

Savannah’s mind races. Could it be? Giovanni, the epitome of perfection, capable of such monstrous acts? Her thoughts turn to Sahara, remembering how her sister had mentioned a secret meeting with Giovanni on the day she disappeared. The pieces of the puzzle begin to fit together in a dark, horrifying picture.

Savannah’s heart aches with a chilling realization: the angelic Giovanni, adored by all, might be hiding a sinister truth. As she stares into the night, she knows she has to uncover the depths of Giovanni's secrets, no matter the cost. The perfect facade is beginning to crack, revealing the darkness that lies beneath.

*Merano’s Domain: A school system, ranging from elementary through senior high, owned by the Merano family.

Cercis

I sink deeper into my sad excuse of an armchair, the springs stabbing me like they’re personally offended I exist. The laptop screen glows at me from across the room. Dim, judgy, and aggressively unhelpful. The cursor blinks at the end of my half-baked synopsis like it’s whispering, loser… loser… still a loser.

I take another long swig from my beer, warm, flat, and somehow still better than my life choices. Empty cans litter the floor like little metallic corpses. Same, honestly.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, doing absolutely nothing productive. I’m tired. Not the cute “I need a nap” tired. The existential variety that comes from a childhood full of disappointment, a sister who vanished, a mother who died, and a father who noped out of my life like it was a limited-time offer he wasn’t interested in.

Whatever. I finish the last can, flick it aside, and grab my phone instead. Doomscrolling: the modern woman’s lullaby. Perfect people. Perfect teeth. Perfect vacations. Ugh.

Then I freeze.

Well, hello.

On my screen is a man who looks like God got bored and decided to flex. Shun. Twenty-something, model, annoyingly pretty. Ethereal, even. Like he doesn’t sweat... he glows or sparkles or some crap.

“Oh, it’s you…” I mumble, pointing at his face like he personally offended me.

I glance up at Giovanni’s portrait pinned on my wall, my stupidly perfect, fictional creation. Giovanni Merano: angel jawline, tragic eyes, emotional damage deluxe.

Then back at Shun.

Wait.

My brain, soaked in alcohol and poor decisions, attempts to connect the dots.

“Giovanni…” I whisper. Then squint at Shun’s photo. “Shun…? Giovanni…? Whatever the hell—no. Nope. Not dealing with that tonight.”

Cue drunken impulse. I grab my phone with fingers that feel like noodles and start typing a message. Something about him looking familiar. Something about reminding me of someone. Something about meeting up.

I hit send.

Instant regret.

Silence fills the room, the kind that makes you painfully aware you’re alone. Just the hum of the laptop and the city outside pretending it cares.

Why would he respond? Why would anyone respond? Why am I like this?

My eyes grow heavy. I let them fall.

“Damn it—mhm…” I mumble into the void as consciousness slips away, and I pass out right there in the glow of my loneliness and bad decisions.

Morning comes like punishment. My head’s pounding, my mouth tastes like old beer, and my brain’s about two seconds from filing for divorce. I blink blearily at my phone when it buzzes.

And then I see it.

Shun replied.

Not just replied...he agreed to meet me.

For a second, I think I’m hallucinating. Maybe I’m still drunk. But nope. It’s real. My heart skips like an idiot, and I immediately tell it to calm down. 

I throw on the first pair of jeans I find and a wrinkled blouse that might’ve once been white. My hair? Forget it. It’s chaos, and I’m not about to fight it. I splash cold water on my face, doesn’t help, and grab my bag. Hangover or not, I’m not missing this.

The city’s grand library smells like ink, dust, and effort, basically everything I avoid. I find a quiet corner table, trying not to look too eager while my leg bounces under the table like a motor. Maybe he won’t come. Maybe this is some weird PR stunt.

Then the doors open, and the whole room kind of stops breathing.

There he is.

Shun. The face that probably launched a thousand retweets. Heads turn as he walks in, calm, confident, every step deliberate, like he owns gravity or something. My stomach does a backflip, but I keep my face still, eyes half-lidded.

His aquamarine eyes sweep over the crowd, and when they land on me, he smiles. Oh, hell.

“So… you were looking for me, Cercis?” he says, sitting down across from me. Smooth voice. Too smooth.

“Apparently,” I say, trying not to sound like a fangirl on caffeine.

“It’s been a while,” he adds.

“A wh–huh?” I manage, raising an eyebrow. My hangover’s still driving the car.

He tilts his head, frown soft but disappointed. “You don’t… remember me?”

I blink at him. “You’re Shun. A model. Unless there’s another you wandering around.”

He sighs lightly, then smiles again, professional, but something’s off. “You said I looked familiar. What did you mean?”

“You remind me of a character in my novel,” I blurt. “Giovanni Merano.” I lean back, letting a smirk curl my lips. “He’s perfect. Handsome, talented, kind... basically the fantasy version of a real man.”

Shun chuckles, eyes glinting. “Sounds like someone I should be jealous of.”

“Oh, don’t be,” I shoot back. “He’s fictional. You’d lose anyway.”

He laughs quietly, and for a moment I hate how nice that sounds.

I tell him more about Giovanni...how he’s adored but hollow, how perfection’s just a mask. Shun listens, really listens, and that’s… unsettling. Like he actually gets it. Gets me.

He asks if he can read it, and I pretend to think about it before emailing him the draft. “It’s rough, but try not to judge the typos too harshly.”

He grins. “I’ll be gentle.”

Oh, don’t say it like that, I think.

We talk for a while longer, about writing, about modeling, about everything and nothing, until my phone buzzes. A message from my boss, Mr. Park. Crisis mode: their model for an upcoming campaign just dropped out.

Opportunity knocks. Loudly.

“Well,” I say, lips curving into a grin, “isn’t that convenient?”

Shun raises an eyebrow. “Should I be worried?”

“Maybe. My agency’s desperate for a replacement. You’d be perfect.”

“Perfect,” he echoes, amused. “I’ll need to check with my management.”

“Of course,” I say sweetly. “Wouldn’t want to steal you too recklessly.”

He smiles, that easy, devastating kind of smile that really shouldn’t be legal. “Send me the details. I’ll think about it.”

We exchange numbers before he’s whisked away by some sleek black car, while I, the glamorous author-graphic-designer hybrid that I am, take the bus. Classy.

Back at my apartment, I dump my bag, kick off my shoes, and tear open a fresh beer. The hiss of carbonation is my favorite symphony. I collapse into my desk chair and take a long drink, trying not to replay every little detail, his eyes, his voice, that stupidly gentle smile.

I DON’T LIKE HIM!

Still, I remember how everyone stared at him in the library, and my jaw tightens. “They better keep their eyes to themselves,” I mutter before laughing at myself. “God, I sound insane.”

Maybe I am.

My gaze drifts to the photo on my desk... me, a toddler between my parents, and Iris beside me, smiling like she owned the sun. The ache hits hard and fast.

“Iris,” I whisper, voice low. “Where the hell did you go?”

I raise my can in a lazy toast... To the ones who left… and the ones who come back looking like fiction.

The room stays quiet, except for the soft fizz of beer and the way my heart refuses to calm down.