First Photo

They say first impressions are everything.

If that’s true, mine probably screamed “lost delivery guy.”

I stood outside Arclight Productions clutching my camera bag like it contained the meaning of life. Glass walls rose above me, reflecting the Tokyo skyline — sharp, bright, and way too clean for someone who usually photographed stray cats and broken vending machines.

My professor called this internship a “career opportunity.”

I called it “throwing me to the wolves with better haircuts.”

Still, free credits are free credits.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of coffee, hair spray, and ambition. Assistants in black headsets rushed by with stacks of papers, someone was wheeling a clothing rack full of sequined dresses, and a huge poster of Tsukishiro Rin smiled down at me from the lobby wall. Long pink hair, purple radiant eyes, and a smile that has captivated millions.

Tsukishiro Rin. Arclight’s crown jewel. The biggest and most famous idol in their roster.

Her smile in that photo was so flawless it almost looked printed on. Eyes bright, posture perfect, hair catching the light in impossible ways. She was the kind of person people called “radiant,” though if you stared long enough, the light started to look more like a mask.

Pretty, but empty, I thought before I could stop myself.

Like the photo forgot to breathe.

I’d seen that expression before. Models pretending to laugh at nothing, singers posing mid-note for something they didn’t feel. You learn to spot it fast when you take pictures of people who hate being seen. Why couldn’t anyone else see it?

That’s what drew me to photography in the first place: catching the second before the mask goes back on.

The receptionist waved me toward the elevator. “Fourth floor, Studio B. Don’t touch anything expensive.”

Noted.

By the time I reached the studio, the noise hit like a wave. Shouts, cables, flashes, chaos disguised as organization. I froze by the door, half hoping no one would notice me. No such luck.

“Hey, new guy!” a tall woman with a clipboard called out. “Camera intern, right? Go help Takano-san with the lighting rig before he explodes.”

That had to be the lead photographer I’d be “assisting.”

Translation: holding things while he yelled at them.

“Explodes?” I repeated, but she was already gone.

Aoi Takano-san was indeed the lead photographer, a broad man with silver hair and the permanent expression of someone allergic to incompetence. I hurried over, bowing respectfully.

“Hello, Takano-san, I’m Mikazuki Hajime—“

“You’re the intern?” he grunted, cutting me off.

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t call me sir. Makes me feel old. Hand me that reflector.”

I did. He glanced at me once—just long enough to register that I existed—and went back to adjusting his camera.

“Good,” he said without looking. “You can start by not breaking anything.”

Charming guy.

“Do you even know how to use that thing?” He eyed the camera around my neck.

“I study photography.” I replied dryly, something that caused him to glare back at me.

Correction: extremely charming guy.

“I mean yes. I do, sir…”

“I told you not to call me sir!”

“Sorry, NOT sir!”

He huffed, waving me off.

“Go help somebody else. Your smart mouth isn’t needed here.”

Somehow that felt like liberation, so I simply nodded.

I busied myself untangling cables and pretending I knew what “f-stop two-eight” meant in context. Between directions, I caught snippets from the crew talk about Rin’s new album, the upcoming documentary Arclight was producing, the tour that would follow.

The doors opened, and every conversation died mid-sentence.

Rin Tsukishiro entered… not like a diva, more like someone used to the room changing temperature when she walked in.

She wore a pale blouse, hair tied in a loose side ponytail. Up close, the pink of her hair wasn’t as bright as in the posters — more muted, almost soft. The same went for her smile. It flicked on the second people looked her way: automatic, perfect, practiced.

For a moment I just watched her greet the staff all politeness and poise. No warmth behind it, just reflex.

She bowed respectfully to the photographer and the crew and positioned herself.

Takano fiddled with his camera, mumbling about focus.

“Lighting check.”

“Good.”

“Focus lock.”

He pressed the shutter.

Beep.

He frowned. Pressed again. Beep-beep.

“…No. No no no—don’t you dare!”

The screen blinked red.

I almost chortled by reflex. I’ve never seen a camera screen do that.

“Battery!” he snapped.

An assistant handed one over.

He swapped it and clicked again. Still dead.

“To hell with this thing! To hell…”

Takano muttered something that could have voided his Arclight contract, ripped the camera from the mount, and stalked off toward the equipment room. The door slammed.

Silence.

Someone coughed. Another whispered, “Well, that’s not good.”

Wow, that was awkward. I momentarily cursed the teacher who brought me into this studio specifically because… what even was that?

Rin stood by the backdrop, hands folded, wearing that same polite half-smile — the kind that says everything’s fine even when nothing is.

Then a voice behind me — somebody from the crew had spoken.

“Hey, rookie. I see you brought your own gear, right?”

My grip on the strap tightened as I turned to face him.

“…Yeah?”

“Great. Rin-san’s already in position. Take a few test shots to give her a warmup until the photographer is back. You can thank us later when you’re famous.” He winked.

Laughter rippled through the crew.

For a moment I wanted to rip them a new one for chuckling at my expense but then I remembered… showbiz.

Showbiz…

I took a deep breath.

Rin blinked in surprise, then looked at me — calm, curious.

My camera suddenly felt heavier than usual.

So this was it.

Day one on the job, and I was about to point my lens at the most photographed woman in Japan. I had less chance of taking a snap of her myself than an earthquake splitting the studio and yet… here I was.

But for the first time all morning, my hands stopped shaking.

I stepped forward. The silence pressed down on me heavily, but undeterred I raised my camera.

Rin took her stance, and smiled brightly. Just like that her switch was on. Professional. Calm. Gorgeous.

Absolutely perfect.

But why… why couldn’t I just let that slide?

It was the perfect click. A career-defining one.

But I just couldn’t take that picture. Not like that.

Instead, my mouth moved before my brain could stop it.

“You don’t have to pretend, you know.”

The room went silent at my words. Rin blinked once. Then twice.

“Eh?” She cocked her head unsure if she heard me right.

Instead of leaving it there though, I simply kept going.

“Being happy, I mean. Your smile is pretty yeah, but… it’s fake.”

The words rang out across the room. The tension was so thick you could reach out and touch it.

If Takano-san wasn’t fired… then I sure was. What a first day.

Somebody coughed. Somebody else was about to have a panic attack. Nobody had ever spoken to the idol, Tsukishiro Rin, like that and yet here I was, an intern, with a mouth bigger than her career.

“Listen you—“

Right as her manager was about to chastise me, a soft, clear sound broke the tension.

It was a laugh. A soft, beautiful giggle.

I turned my eyes towards her and sure enough…

It was Rin. Tsukishiro Rin was laughing.

The tension in the room seemed to ease.

Click.

I snapped a picture without even thinking, and when I looked back down at my screen… heat rose to my face.

There she was. The crown jewel of Archlight Productions with the most genuine, natural smile you could ever hope to see.

And I had snapped the moment with my camera.

I lowered my camera slowly. Rin was still smiling — not the perfect, practiced kind, but the real thing. The kind of smile that makes you forget how to breathe for a second.

It was warm, uneven, alive.

Then I looked around. Everyone was staring at me like I’d just kicked a puppy on national TV.

Takano still hadn’t returned.

Lucky me.

Her manager was the first to speak. She was a tall woman, red hair tied in a bun, impeccably high heels and a blazer probably two sizes smaller than the norm.

“…What did you just say to her?”

“Uh,” I scratched the back of my neck, “slip of the tongue?”

A ripple of disbelief went through the crew. Someone whispered, “Did he actually say that to Rin-san?”

I considered digging a hole through the floor and crawling out of Tokyo with a fake passport.

Before anyone could grill me futher, Rin spoke up. Her tone was soft, but her voice carried.

“It’s okay. I didn’t mind.”

You could’ve heard a pin drop.

Her manager blinked. “Rin-san?”

She looked at me, still smiling that same real, unguarded expression.

Nobody seemed to know how to respond to that.

Takano chose that exact moment to storm back in, holding a replacement camera like a man on a mission.

“What the hell happened here? Why is everyone standing around?”

His assistant rushed over, whispering something about “the intern” and “the shot.”

Takano’s eyes found me.

Oh good. Now I was definitely dead.

“Let me see that,” he barked, gesturing at my camera. My brain briefly considered smashing it and making a break for it.

Instead, I handed it over.

He scrolled through the screen, then froze. The room waited.

He stared at the photo for a full ten seconds.

“You took this?” His eyes flicked to me.

“I guess… I did.”

Takano glared, but this time there was hesitation behind it.

“This…” he muttered, zooming in, “…isn’t bad.”

Coming from him, it might’ve been the highest praise on record.

The crew murmured. Rin’s manager leaned over to see the display, eyebrows rising as the image came into focus — Rin, mid-laugh, hand near her chest, hair slightly falling out of place. Perfectly imperfect.

The PR woman, all glasses and sharp lipstick, was the next to react.

“This… actually fits the tone we discussed for the documentary. More natural. Authentic.”

Takano looked like he’d swallowed a lemon.

She turned to Rin. “What do you think, Rin-san?”

Rin studied the image quietly for a moment before nodding.

“I like it,” she nodded. “It feels… honest.”

That word again. Honest.

Guess my bad habit was contagious.

Takano exhaled, clearly done arguing. “Fine. Let the kid have his five minutes of glory. Now can we get back to work before the light changes?”

But the PR head and Rin’s manager had already stepped aside, whispering to each other.

I couldn’t hear them over the low buzz of the set, but their glances kept darting toward me.

Great. They’re deciding whether to fire me, sue me, or both.

I should probably make a run for it before security drags me out by the neck.

Rin was still looking at me, not with annoyance or judgment, but something else. Amusement, maybe. Or curiosity.

Whatever it was, it made me forget how heavy the camera suddenly felt in my hands.

Then her manager turned around, face calm, almost too calm.

“Mikazuki Hajime,” She said.

“Y–yeah?”

She smiled faintly. “How about you become Tsukishiro Rin’s personal photographer for the documentary? Full time.”

I blinked. Everyone held their breath.

“…Come again?”

“Full time.”

Her tone didn’t waver. “Starting tomorrow.”

“We’ll run it by the producer, but… this style might be exactly what we need.” The PR head confirmed.

Rin’s small grin found me again, and for a second, my heart forgot what beating entailed.

And just like that, my life changed…

all because I told Japan’s most famous idol that her smile was fake.