Torn Threads

The Next Morning – Xiao Zhan’s Studio

The usual chaos of Studio Xuanzhi hummed quietly in the background, but there was a tension in the air—everyone was waiting to see whether Yibo would return… or be replaced.

Xiao Zhan sat at his design table, staring at the sketchbook Lena had given him. The rough pencil strokes were confident, expressive. There were street-style designs with asymmetrical cuts and layered fabrics. No doubt—whoever drew these had a real eye.

Zhan shut the book, conflicted.

“He’s arrogant,” he muttered to himself. “But he sees the world in angles.”

Lena, entering with coffee, raised an eyebrow.

“He’s also talented. And twenty-two. You were worse at that age.”

“I was never late.”

Zhan took the coffee but avoided her gaze.

She chuckled.

“You were never early either.”

Elsewhere – A Small Café in Dongzhimen

Wang Yibo sat in a corner booth, hoodie up, nursing a cappuccino and a bruised ego. His scraped knee throbbed under the table. He scrolled through his phone, ignoring the missed calls from an unknown number.

“It’s not like they really wanted me anyway,” he said to himself. “Just needed a hanger with legs.”

His best friend HaoXuan, a dancer and fellow recent graduate, slid into the seat across from him.

“Dude. I heard about the Xiao Zhan thing. From Weibo.”

“Already?” Yibo groaned.

“Fashion people are messier than dancers,” Xuan smirked. “You really yelled at him?”

“He treated me like trash.”

“Well, you did show up looking like roadkill.”

Yibo scowled.

“Thanks for the support.”

“Look, you’re the one who said you wanted your first job to mean something. Maybe it still can. Go back. Talk it out.”

“I’d rather model socks on Taobao.”

Studio Xuanzhi – Noon

Lena approached Zhan quietly.

“Just got word—Yibo’s injury was real. A taxi clipped his skateboard. He limped all the way here.”

Zhan’s face stiffened.

“Why didn’t he say that?”

“He did. You were too busy scolding him.”

The truth hit harder than he expected.

Before he could reply, Huang Ming, the casting director, entered with another model, tall and polished.

“Found a backup for the finale look,” Huang announced. “Not as edgy as Yibo, but clean lines.”

Zhan looked the new model up and down. On paper, he was perfect—symmetrical, poised.

But in Zhan’s mind, he pictured Yibo’s long, fluid stride. The way he stood with a stubborn slouch, as if he didn’t care who was watching—until he did, and then the whole room watched back.

Zhan muttered,

“No edge. No story.”

That Night – Studio Xuanzhi, After Hours

Yibo returned, hoodie up, walking in as if unsure whether to run or stay.

Most of the staff had left. Only the soft hum of machines and a few glowing desk lamps remained.

He wandered in cautiously and found Lena packing up.

“I’m not here to beg,” he said flatly. “Just… wanted to pick up my board. I think I left it near the mirrors.”

Lena smiled slightly.

“Also left something else.”

She handed him the sketchbook.

Yibo froze.

“You… looked through it?”

“Zhan did.”

Yibo’s eyes flickered with something close to panic.

“That wasn’t supposed to—”

“He liked it,” she cut in.

Before Yibo could answer, Xiao Zhan emerged from the back, holding a muslin mockup jacket that bore distinct resemblance to one of Yibo’s sketches.

“Didn’t know models sketched,” Zhan said evenly. “You have a sharp sense of structure.”

Yibo blinked, unsure whether this was mockery.

“Thanks,” he replied guardedly. “Didn’t know designers raided sketchbooks.”

Zhan smirked.

“Touché.”

A pause.

“Look,” Zhan finally said, “You were right. I let stress get the better of me. This collection means a lot, and I’ve been... off.”

Yibo said nothing, but didn’t leave.

“You still want the job?” Zhan asked, quieter now. “Because no one walks that final suit like you do.”

Yibo stared at him.

“You sure you want someone ‘reckless’ and ‘rookie’ to close your show?”

“I want someone who owns the room without needing permission.”

Yibo’s lips quirked slightly.

“Then you’ve got him.”

Later That Night – McDonald’s Parking Lot

They sat in Zhan’s car, quietly eating cheeseburgers and fries after a long impromptu fitting.

Zhan looked at him sideways.

“Why lasagna in your sketchbook?”

Yibo laughed.

“It’s my comfort food. Every design in there’s based on a food memory.”

Zhan blinked.

“Seriously?”

Yibo shrugged.

“Layers. Warmth. It’s what I want clothes to feel like.”

Zhan smiled—genuinely this time.

“Lasagna it is, then.”

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