The smell of ginger tea and toasted bread drifted into Sayna's room, a scent that usually meant comfort. Today, it felt like an anchor.
Sayna Wahid sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the black makeup train case at her feet. Inside were her weapons: blending sponges, palettes with colors named Obsidian and Ethereal Gold, and a set of brushes she had bought one by one, skipping lunches for months to afford the professional grade.
"Sayna? Breakfast is getting cold," her mother called from the kitchen.
Sayna took a deep breath, adjusted her dupatta, and walked out. Her parents were already seated. Her father was scanning the news on his phone, the light catching the gray in his hair—a reminder of the years he'd spent working a desk job to ensure she never had to worry about a roof over her head.
"Abbu, Ammi," Sayna started, her voice steadier than she felt. She didn't sit down. "I've made a decision about the internship after the B.Com results come out."
Her father looked up, a small, proud smile forming. "The accounting firm near the station? I heard they have a permanent opening."
"No," Sayna said, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her sleeve. "I've been accepted into a trainee program for a production house. In Beijing ."
The silence that followed was heavy. The clink of her mother's spoon against the ceramic cup sounded like a crack in the foundation of their quiet home.
"China?" her mother whispered, her eyes wide. "Sayna, you're our only child. We've worked so hard so you could be safe here, with us. Why would you go somewhere where you don't even know the language for... for painting faces?"
"It's not just painting faces, Ammi," Sayna said, her eyes flashing with a rare spark of defiance.
"It's art. It's a career. And there's someone—a lead artist there—who I need to learn from."
She didn't mention Tian. She didn't mention the posters hidden in the back of her closet or the way she had memorized the bone structure of his face through a screen. To them, it was a whim. To her, it was the only way to breathe.
"I've already booked the flight," she added softly. "I'm going to be a makeup artist. I'm going to find my own way."
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The international terminal was a sea of fluorescent lights and the mechanical hum of rolling suitcases. To everyone else, it was just an airport; to Sayna, it felt like the edge of a cliff.
Her father held her passport and ticket as if they were fragile glass. He didn't look at her, his eyes fixed on the flight information board. Her mother, meanwhile, was adjusting Sayna's coat for the tenth time, her hands lingering on the fabric.
"You have the extra power bank? And the dried fruit I packed?" her mother whispered, her voice thick. "And the Mandarin phrasebook? What if you get lost, Sayna? You're so far from us."
"Ammi, I'll be fine. I have GPS," Sayna said, offering a small, fragile smile. She felt a pang of sharp guilt. Being an only child meant she was their only investment, their only joy, and now, their only heartbreak.
Her father finally turned to her. He didn't give her a lecture about accounting or stability. Instead, he tucked the passport into her hand and pulled her into a brief, stiff hug. "Don't forget why you're going," he murmured against her hair. "If you're going to be an artist, be the best one they've ever seen. Don't let them look down on you just because you're a trainee."
Sayna nodded, a lump forming in her throat. "I won't, Abbu."
She turned away, the handle of her heavy makeup kit clicking as she extended it. It was the heaviest thing she owned—not because of the palettes and brushes inside, but because it carried her entire future.
As she walked toward the security gates, she didn't look back. She knew if she saw her mother wiping her eyes, she might drop everything and run back to the safety of her bedroom. Instead, she focused on the digital screen above the gate: Flight to Shanghai – Boarding.
The air on the plane was recycled and cold. As the engines roared to life, Sayna pulled out her phone. She scrolled past the photos of her graduation, past the pictures of her parents, until she reached a saved folder.
She tapped on a candid shot of Tian. He was leaving a press conference, looking tired, his jawline sharp under the "moody cinematic" lighting of the city. He looked untouchable.
I'm coming for you , she thought, the plane tilting upward, leaving the familiar lights of her home behind. I'm going to be the one who sees the man behind the mask.