The studio lights weren't just hot; they were predatory. They hunted every bead of sweat forming on Yuzu's spine beneath the flimsy turquoise triangles of fabric called a bikini.

The imported sand, coarse and unforgiving, clung to her oiled skin like cheap glitter. Designed by a sadist, she thought, the minuscule strings sawing into the delicate skin at her hips and neck with every forced pose.

The turquoise felt garish against her porcelain skin, highlighting rather than concealing. Around her, the crew moved with bored efficiency, their indifference a physical weight.

"Arch! No, arch, Amano! Think hungry! Think expensive!" The photographer's voice cracked like a whip, devoid of any warmth. Behind him, the creative director, a man with cold eyes and a perpetual smirk, observed her struggle.

Yuzu attempted a subtle shift, trying to relieve the pressure on her hip bone where a sequin edge bit deep. "Director," she began, her voice low and carefully modulated to hide the tremor of humiliation, "perhaps the emerald one-piece? It would complement the concept—"

He cut her off with a sharp bark of laughter, blowing cigarette smoke that stung her eyes. "Stop wasting my time with your insecurities, Amano. Pose or pack up. You think you're special? You're replaceable before lunch."

The word replaceable slammed into her gut, colder than the studio AC. She locked her jaw, the muscles in her temples pulsing, and forced her spine into an unnatural curve.

Replaceable. The only currency they understand. The sand burned the soles of her feet, the lights bleached her vision, and the tiny costume felt like a cage.

Three grueling hours later, slick with a mix of sweat, cheap coconut oil, and a simmering rage, she stood shivering in the drafty corridor outside Accounting. The envelope felt flimsy, insubstantial. She didn't need to open it; the weight was wrong.

The accountant, a nervous man avoiding her gaze, mumbled something about "budget revisions" and "creative dissatisfaction."

Half. They'd paid half.

Yuzu took the envelope. Her fingers didn't tremble; they were claws of ice. She turned without a word, walking past racks of untouched, more substantial swimwear, the injustice a bitter taste coating her tongue.

In the stark, fluorescent glare of the dressing room, she ripped the turquoise fabric off like it carried a disease. It fell to the floor, a sad puddle of failed armor.

The mirror reflected angry red lines etched into her skin by the sequins and strings—temporary scars marking another defeat. She scrubbed furiously at the oil and sand, the rough towel abrading her skin until it felt raw, trying to erase the feeling of being cheapened, inspected, and discarded.