The first stitch ..

Beijing Fashion Week — 3 Days Before the Runway Show

The backstage of Studio Xuanzhi was buzzing like a hive under pressure. Assistants rushed around with fabric swatches, models were being fitted, and tailors whispered to each other, threading needles with the precision of surgeons.

Xiao Zhan, 29, stood in the center of it all, arms crossed, dressed immaculately in a black linen shirt and tailored pants, clipboard in hand. His brows were furrowed in a sharp V as he watched one of the male models stumble down the temporary catwalk.

“No. No, no, no!”

“He walks like he’s carrying shame on his shoulders,” Xiao Zhan snapped. “I want elegance, not a funeral procession.”

Lena, his assistant, leaned closer.

“Yibo’s still not here. That was the substitute we pulled in case—”

Zhan didn’t let her finish.

“Still not here? We’re three days from the runway and my lead model—my centerpiece—is missing?”

He turned away, jaw clenched.

Meanwhile — outside the studio

Wang Yibo, 22, tall, lean, and dressed in a white T-shirt and ripped jeans, limped toward the entrance of the studio. One knee was scraped and slightly bleeding, and a tear ran across the hem of his pants. His skateboard—snapped clean in half—was clutched in his hand.

His phone had 4 missed calls from an unknown number.

“This is just great,” he muttered. “First real gig, and I look like a disaster.”

He pushed the glass door open and walked in.

Backstage

The room hushed slightly as Yibo entered, scratched, slightly sweaty, and dragging his broken skateboard behind him. The other models gave him side-eyes, whispering.

Zhan turned. His eyes locked on Yibo, and the moment stood still.

Yibo gave a sheepish half-smile.

“Sorry I’m late. There was...a situation. A taxi clipped my board.”

He gestured vaguely at his leg.

“Didn’t want to call in and sound like I was making excuses.”

Xiao Zhan blinked, unimpressed.

“Oh, so this is your version of commitment? You show up late, looking like a back-alley street dancer, and expect to be dressed in my creation?”

Yibo straightened up slightly.

“Look, I get that you're stressed. But I showed up. That should count for something.”

Zhan’s eyes narrowed.

“Fashion is timing. Precision. And respect. If you can’t offer that, you shouldn’t be here.”

Lena stepped in gently.

“He did have an accident, Zhan. Maybe let him change first? We still have his suit from the first fitting.”

Zhan didn't even look at her. He walked right up to Yibo, face mere inches away.

“You know what I see? A reckless rookie who doesn’t understand the value of the opportunity he’s been given.”

Yibo’s voice grew colder.

“And I see a designer who thinks throwing tantrums makes him a genius. Got it.”

The silence afterward was deafening.

Zhan stepped back as if stung.

“You’re dismissed. I’ll find another model. One who understands how to walk the walk.”

Yibo turned and walked out without another word, pride burning through his veins even more than his scraped knee. As the door shut behind him, Lena whispered:

“He’s the only one who fits that suit perfectly. We custom-stitched it to his measurements.”

Zhan looked away, jaw tight.

“Then we’ll re-stitch it.”

Outside — 15 minutes later

Yibo sat on a bench just around the corner from the building, breathing heavily, biting down a mix of humiliation and frustration. He hated losing his temper, especially when he was trying to prove himself.

He reached into his backpack for his sketchbook—a small, leather-bound thing he always carried—and flipped through the pages of streetwear concepts he’d drawn during college.

“You really blew it, man,” he muttered to himself. “Great first impression.”

In his haste, he didn’t realize the sketchbook had fallen from his bag when he stood up and walked away.

Back in the studio — that evening

Lena found the sketchbook on the bench as she left for the night. She flipped through it absentmindedly and paused at a design for a jacket—angular, rebellious, modern. It looked...promising.

She hesitated, then handed it to Xiao Zhan later that night, wordlessly placing it on his work table.

Zhan flipped through the pages, slowly. His eyes paused at a jacket design that resembled the one Yibo had mentioned in passing during the first fitting.

A slow exhale.

“Maybe,” he whispered to no one, “I stitched him into the wrong role.”

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