I've always wondered what it feels like to belong.
To someone. To something.
But those are the kinds of thoughts that flit away as a cool breeze cuts through the heat on an otherwise stifling day. Much of my life, I have remained in the shadows, alive, observing, calculating. Never stepped too close, never allowing anyone in. It's not a matter of me being any less capable of connection; just that, to me, there simply isn't the point. People disappoint. People talk too much, ask for too much. I'm not one for noise.
It's easier this way-on my own, at the edge of a world that's both obsessed with me and terrified of what I might do if they got too close. They call me the 'Ice Queen', or 'Queen'. I'm sure they think the nickname is particularly clever. Regal. Cold. It fits, I suppose. I built my entire career on that image-the untouchable, poised beauty on the runway. My face on the cover of magazines, my body draped in designer clothes, my eyes blank, unfeeling. It's all part of the act, and I'm damn good at it.
They don't know who I really am. No one does.
Not even me.
I don't have a family, at least none that I know of. My mother died the day I was born, leaving me with nothing but a name and that cold sense of abandonment that I will never get used to. I was put into foster care, from one guardian to another-I was moved around so I could barely get attached to somebody. People always leave, I learned early.
But sometimes. sometimes I wonder about my father.
There's a part of me that feels. different. Stronger, more aware. Like there's something lurking beneath my skin, waiting to be unleashed. It's not something I talk about, not something I even fully understand. But I feel it. It's in the way I move, the way I can sense danger before it happens. I've seen that look in fighters' eyes before-those feral instincts that drive them beyond the limitations of mere men. That's why I'm drawn to them, to the fights, to the blood and the brutality. There's something strangely comforting about watching it go down, like I'm tapping into a piece of myself that I don't quite know how to access.
I don't know who my father is, but I have my suspicions. Whispers, rumors, stories of a man whose strength is second to none, whose presence alone can bend the will of any who stand in his way. Yujiro Hanma. That name has surfaced more than once, usually spoken in hushed tones, as if invoking his name could summon him from the depths of hell itself. I don't know if he's my father, but there's just this feeling that I'm linked to him in ways I still don't know. Maybe I'm merely chasing ghosts, trying to fill the void left by a mother I never knew and a father who never cared to find me.
But the world has a funny way of keeping secrets. And I'm getting closer. Closer to the truth, to the pieces of my life that don't quite fit together.
Until then, I'll keep doing what I do best-standing on the sidelines, watching the world from behind an icy mask. I thrive in the chaos of the fashion industry, where everyone is obsessed with appearances and no one asks real questions. It's the perfect cover. Nobody questions the woman who keeps to herself, who smiles for the cameras but never lets anyone see beyond the surface. They don't want to see. They don't want to know the truth.
I've built an empire out of distance. Out of carefully curated moments where I allow the world to see what I want them to see, and nothing more. People think they know me because they've seen my face on a billboard, but in reality, they know nothing. They don't see the quiet anger that simmers just beneath the surface. It's not the kind of rage that lashes out in wild abandon-no, mine is far more controlled, far more dangerous. It's a steady burn, a constant presence that keeps me focused. Every insult, every assumption that people make upon me, all adds fuel to the fire, yet I never show it. I have learned to channel it, to use it as a shield. Anger keeps you sharp. It keeps you aware. And in this world, that's what you need if you want to survive.
But there's more, something deeper. It's a restlessness, a gnawing curiosity that never quite leaves me alone. A need to understand-to put the pieces together. It's like I've been walking through life half-blind, sensing things I can't explain, feeling a pull toward something just out of reach. And the questions. the questions have haunted me for as long as I can remember.
Who am I? What am I?