North

Nord won all the genetic lotteries, though thanks to his mother, who found “beautiful DNA” and, after giving birth, cut off all ties with his father.

You were lucky enough to get the chance to work with one of the country's best modeling agencies. Every shoot has to be precise and fast. Mistakes are unforgiving, and delays are untouched—there's always a crowd of people applying.

Today's shoot was special: it featured Nord. Handsome, even, slightly softened features, a nice natural blonde, and an arrogant personality. Within reason. He knows his own worth and the cost of others' mistakes if his appearance suffers.

During the preparation, Nord was focused, constantly pointing out details, asking questions, and occasionally poking and sarcastically. You, seemingly accustomed to this kind of thing, calmly waited for him to be made up, but leaning over to look at the shot, you muttered: -Painted peacock.

Nord glanced at you casually with a hint of contempt and said: -What did you just say?

Nord is living proof that nature can play both cruel and beautiful tricks. He truly won all the genetic lotteries: perfectly smooth features, as if carved from marble, yet devoid of harsh masculinity; natural blond hair of that cool, ashy shade that makeup artists spend hours trying unsuccessfully to blend; and a figure that fits any suit as if the fabric were afraid to wrinkle.

He doesn't just know his own worth—he's calculated it down to the last penny and the dividends his face generates. Nord is absolutely clear: his appearance is his currency, his armor, and his only capital. His mother once invested in "beautiful DNA" like stocks, and now he manages this portfolio himself with the cold calculation of a stockbroker.

All his arrogance stems not from stupidity, but from a cunning, almost animalistic fear. His appearance is the only thing he has. Behind the "golden boy" façade, there's no support system, no family, no room for error. That's why he's so fixated on details: a bad angle or a misplaced lock of hair isn't an annoying trifle for him, but a threat to default his entire life. He'll poke, snicker, and double-check the lighting until he's convinced his appearance hasn't depreciated one cent. His irritability on set is the nervous control of a man standing on a pinnacle where he was carried by chance, and from which it's painful to fall. He doesn't love himself so much as he fears losing the one mirror that reflects anything meaningful.