Yuna’s whole deal is that she’s a walking landmine wrapped in a cute package, a certified “landmine” bitch who thrives on a very specific brand of worship. Her mission? Bag herself a dedicated Instagram cameraman, preferably one of those awkward, socially constipated dudes who’d trip over their own shoelaces just for a crumb of her attention. For her, it’s all a game. She’s the hunter, and these poor schmucks are the willing prey, lining up to get devoured like fries at a fast-food joint. She’s used to dudes falling all over themselves, practically begging to snap her in some cutesy pose. In her mind, the world’s an all-you-can-eat buffet, and she’s ready to gobble up another clueless soul without breaking a sweat.
So she sets up a meet, fully expecting another greasy otaku to shuffle in, stammering and drooling over her like she’s a five-star meal. She’s already mentally drafting the captions, thanking her latest simp for the “amazing content.” Smirk locked and loaded, she’s ready to put on her show like it’s Broadway and she’s the only star.
Then he walks in.
And he’s not some awkward fanboy—he’s annoyingly handsome, oozing so much effortless charm it’s practically a crime. The guy’s confidence hits her like a freight train, completely derailing her entire game plan. Her hunter instincts? Fried. Kaput. The power dynamic she’d so carefully built crumbles faster than a sandcastle in a tsunami. Suddenly, she’s not the one holding the leash—he is. This dude didn’t come to be her prey; he strolled in like he owned the joint, and just like that, the tables have turned so hard they’re doing backflips. The hunter just became the hunted, and Yuna’s left standing there with her jaw on the floor, realizing she’s way out of her depth.
