Chapter Text
It has been 2 weeks since Chuuya has been filled with stardom.
For the past two weeks, the world has continued to talk about Nakahara Chuuya.
The iconic fedora hat and leather choker.
His smoldering look and characteristic frown became as well-known as any supermodel's flawless smile on the pages of fashion publications. The picture of him in that deconstructed blazer, chains wrapped over his chest like armor, has appeared in publications, street art, and even a contentious window display on Fifth Ave. Social media became a battleground for discussions, with some calling him revolutionary and others rejecting him as an overhyped fad. But, love him or detest him, no one could turn away, and that’s what matters to them.
GSM's website had collapsed three times due to high traffic, and their inboxes were swamped with interview requests, brand partnerships, and, most interestingly, messages from admirers who had never seen someone like themselves represented in email fashion before. Teenagers with vitiligo, burn survivors, amputees, and even people with heterochromatic eyes have all written to thank him for showing the world the beauty in what was formerly considered faults.
Runway scouts lingered backstage at every show he walked, eager to duplicate his seamless charisma on their own rosters. Designers who had before shunned GSM now clamored to dress him, their designs becoming bolder, their materials more audacious, as if attempting to match the unbridled energy he brought to each shoot.
Nakahara Chuuya's heterochromatic eyes—his left a deep, molten brown, his right an ice-cold blue—had become as recognizable as the hat throw that began it all. They appeared on billboards in Shibuya, flashed across Times Square screens, and tormented the dreams of designers attempting to recreate his lightning-in-a-bottle charm.
Internet discussions erupted about which eye has more power. "The brown one makes me feel things," tweeted a follower with 20,000 likes. "The blue one could kill me, and I'd thank it," another responded. Memes spliced his visage, giving each eye significantly different captions—the brown one over text saying "I tolerate you," the blue one over "I will end you."
Backstage at the Milan exhibitions, professional photographers discussed how his mismatched stare ruined their light meters. "The brown absorbs," one moaned as he adjusted the settings. "Blue reflects. It's like shooting two different people."
And Chuuya?
He went through it all with the same brazen indifference that had sparked the storm. He disregarded the headlines and sneered at the think pieces evaluating his "cultural impact," but when no one was watching, he'd halt at a newsstand, fingertips brushing over a magazine featuring his face.
Something had shifted.
The industry would never be the same.
Neither would he .
“I wouldn’t imagine this,” he told Shirase, who just came back from the Moscow event.
“I never received this much attention; it’s crazy I have to walk out to get a Monster drink simply, and I have 7 fucking security guards up in my ass.”
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
After Shogo and the rest of the GSM crew came back from the Nebula Runway’s spring event, Chuuya treated him to fine dining at one of Yokohama’s skyscraping restaurants, and then they went ahead and played Super Smash Bros in a random arcade.
They eventually got bored and decided to smoke.
But first—the fans!
“Chuuya here!”
flash
“Omg, it’s him!”
flash
“One picccccccc pleaseeeeee.”
flash
The alley behind the arcade was wet with rain, and the neon light from the street barely reached the hidden spot they'd claimed. Chuuya had guided them here using a maze of backstreets and emergency exits, his feet fast and careful, until the distant squeals of fans blended into the city's buzz. The only sounds left were the odd trickle of water from a rusting fire escape and the languid drag of their cigarettes.
Shogo rested against the damp brick wall, his white hair appearing ghostly in the flickering light of a smashed streetlamp.
Chuuya flung ash onto the pavement. "Forget to ask, how'd your final event go even?"
Shogo took another drag, his scarlet eyes reflecting the neon-scorching flames. "Didn't make it to the final round." He shrugged, his voice still and unfazed. "But it was enjoyable. I learned a lot."
Chuuya glanced at him sideways. “The Nebula still being a bitch?”
Shogo chuckled, “Don’t care much about the awards.”
“I would’ve fought them.” Chuuya gritted, “But it doesn’t even matter to me anymore.”
Shogo giggled and tapped his cigarette. "Not my style, man. I just enjoy walking. The rest is noise." He stopped, then said, "Besides, I expected Shirase to be disappointed with the amount of money and time we spent on accessories and makeup, but he didn't even blink. I guess he's too busy counting your money."
Chuuya smirked before stopping. "Wait, what did you do before modeling?"
Shogo's lips quirked, and his eyes reflected the pale brightness of the city. "Fire lookout," he said simply. "Irkutsk Oblast, in the south of Russia. Started when I was eighteen, so like two years ago."
Chuuya lifted his eyebrow. "So niche."
Shogo shrugged, striking ash off his cigarette. "I needed to disappear for a bit and get some cash. It turns out that being alone in a tower for months at a time improves two skills: thinking too much and standing still, which is perfect for photoshoots."
Chuuya was ready to laugh when his thoughts caught up. He straightened so quickly that his shoulder banged into the brick. "Hang on—you're TWENTY?!"
Shogo stared. "Yes?"
"You baby-faced motherfucker!" Chuuya extended a finger at him. "I thought you were my age!"
"I am. Mostly."
"Mostly doesn't fucking count!"
“Gee, just splash water on your face and boom, babyface.””
They both snickered
An alley cat, perched on the dumpster, yawned loudly.
“But, I do have something to ask you, Chuuya.”
“Shoot it.” Chuuya exhaled, a smoke ring forming.
Shogo took another drag and cocked his head.
"Don't you think this fame surge is too sudden?"
sudden.
The question struck a deep chord in Chuuya's gut—a silent, nagging hunch that he had not allowed himself to concentrate on. The way brands rushed to sign him overnight. Before he could grasp what had happened, he received a torrent of interview requests. The fact that his face appeared everywhere, like as if someone had flicked a switch on.
He inhaled loudly, and smoke swirled between them. "Who gives a shit? The Glamorous Sheep Management is sinking in money right now."
But, behind the diversion, the thought persisted.
Too quick. Too easy.
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
The surroundings buzzed with the low, continuous crackling of an old radio left on—untuned, muttering pieces of unheard voices. The area was filled with reel-to-reel cassettes, their spools moving slowly, capturing nothing. A lone monitor flickered, sending jagged shadows over the walls, and its screen displayed shaky video of the Nebula Runway—specifically, him.
The moment was repeated on a loop.
The fedora slipped off his fingers. The crowd's delayed explosion. His mismatched eyes, one brown and one blue, glinted under the lights like a challenge.
Then—static. A twisted, fractured voice that appears to be battling through layers of interruptions.
"No rules were breached. Not one. Not in The Vyacheslav Fashion Guidebook. Not in the fine print. Not even in the—" A burst of distortion. "—unspoken agreements."
A pause. The reel tapes hissed.
"So why? Why disqualify him?" The voice laughed—high, mechanical, and incorrect. "Fyodor's command. Always follow Fyodor's directions. And yet—"
Another crackle.
"—no explanation offered. Just remove him. Erase him. Acting out like it never happened."
The video glitched, stopping on a single frame of Chuuya's sneer, sharp enough to cut glass.
"Loyalty is a weird thing. Blind. Unquestioning. It's like a dog collecting a poisoned stick and not realizing it." Sigh, staticky and lengthy. "Oh well. Rules are rules. Even when they are not ."
The display flickered out.
“And one more thing, I should tell you—”
“but The Nebula works with ▨▨▨▨▨ ▨▨▨▨▨▨t”
Beep beep beep
“Ah, dearie me. The battery is running out now.”
The radio's murmur faded to quiet.
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
Fashion is at the crossroads of art and commerce, acting as both personal expression and a worldwide industry. Designers turn cloth into statements that combine innovation and wearability. From high couture to streetwear, clothing expresses personality even before a word is uttered. The business feeds on reinvention, continuously redefining what constitutes beauty or avant-garde.
Runway shows bring these concepts to life with meticulously constructed spectacles. Models transform into moving sculptures, presenting designs against dramatic lighting and well-picked music. Every element, from model selection to walking tempo, is carefully considered to create a unique ambiance. These events generate talk, which converts into sales, making runways essential marketing tools as well as artistic exhibits.
Behind the glitz, the business side functions with merciless efficiency. Luxury businesses preserve exclusivity while pursuing mainstream appeal with accessories and fragrances. Fast fashion merchants quickly replicate catwalk trends, making quality design more accessible while creating ethical problems. Independent designers compete for recognition against corporate behemoths with unlimited funding.
True innovation frequently results from questioning norms. Designers such as Rei Kawakubo and Alexander McQueen rose to prominence by disregarding conventional beauty norms. The development of streetwear demonstrated that fashion authority may emerge from places other than established power centers. Even fabric choices make statements, with sustainability gaining importance alongside beauty.
Personal dress choices indicate psychological characteristics. People use fashion to express confidence, conceal weaknesses, or identify with certain groups. The appropriate attire may influence how people view us and how we handle ourselves. This psychological influence lends fashion its long-lasting cultural relevance.
Excerpt from The Vyacheslav Fashion Guidebook, p. 57
Chapter 9: "Fashion in and Within Itself"
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
The binoculars were intended to be used for spotting smoke plumes, not this.
I recall the precise instant the light altered. Just beyond 2200 hours, the Russian evening fades into an eerie, eternal twilight. I was completing my final scan of Sector 7 with the antique military binoculars when I noticed the glimmer. Not fire. Something steely.
Then motion.
Two figures dressed in black robes that did not ripple in the breeze like cloth should. The masks suffocated me—bone-white animal heads with antlers that were too enormous to be authentic and eye sockets that gaped and darkened even under magnification. My fists clenched on the binoculars, and the rubber eyecups pressed bruises into my face as I focused.
They dragged something between themselves. A body. Not an animal—too long and loose in the limbs. Human.
The person’s abdomen was ripped open, blood spilling across the dirt ground as they dragged it.
There were no organs. Just an empty void. No intestines spilling out. Everything was removed from them.
They set fire to it. It wasn't like a pyre or anything I'd seen before. There is no sense of urgency or threat of arrest. Just slow and methodical. One of them squatted, fanning the flames with a stick, while the other stood guard, its hollow skull face slanted up—straight at me, I swear—as if they knew I was there.
But the box made my stomach turn.
One of them carried it, a metal box that appeared drab and nondescript until the firelight illuminated the grooves on its sides. When they opened it, the contents were glistening. Wet. Fleshy. Organic. I couldn't make out the details due to distance and low lighting, but the forms were clear. Too big to be an animal. Their arrangement is too exact to be butchery.
I attempted to rationalize it. What about medical waste? Poachers? But poachers do not use masks like that. They don't take spooky, coordinated steps. They don't burn what they could sell.
When I phoned in, the radio crackled. The rangers ignored it: "Probably just hunters preserving meat." But I have seen hunters. I have seen butchers. This was not either.
“Look, man, we are in the middle of nowhere. I will call authorities to check it out tomorrow if you are that worried.” Tower 14 spat.
I couldn’t sleep that night. I didn’t know what to make of it. Cultists performing a sacrifice? Murderers eradicating their evidence?
When I got down in the morning with the authorities, the fire scene was clean. No ash. No bones. The stink of something rotten lingered, and the snow was compacted too firm beneath my boots, as if something heavy had been hauled away.
(The following three journal entries are blacked out with strong ink. The pages are merely sketches—crude, frenetic drawings of the masks, the box, and a rushed weather log of that day.)
Addendum: Requested transfer the next week. Denied.
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
Shirase's fingers drove against his desk, the repetitive click of his mechanical fingertips the sole sound amid the mayhem of his workspace. Stacks of Nebula Runway rules lay scattered in front of him, each thoroughly studied page proving what he already knew: there was no restriction prohibiting tossing hats. There is no language concerning "unauthorized accessories." Nothing warranted Chuuya's hasty disqualification.
"Fucking convenient," he commented as he placed another handbook into the increasing pile of abandoned research. The formal notification from Nebula's board was purposefully ambiguous—"conduct unbecoming of the event's standards"—a meaningless term that smacked of bureaucratic cover-up.
His computer screen showed surveillance footage from the event, including blurry black-and-white images of Chuuya's now-famous walk. Shirase leaned closer, squinting just before the toss. There was a single second where an unknown model pushed against Chuuya's shoulder, hard enough to be noticed but not deliberate. The collision that caused Chuuya to scowl, which resulted in the impetuous hat throw that changed everything.
"Who the hell are you?" Shirase muttered, freezing the image of the mysterious model's face. Tall, androgynous features are partially covered by a deliberately placed strand of hair. Not on the official roster. Not at any of the backstage check-ins.
The synchronicity seemed too perfect. The bump. The disqualification. The subsequent rise to viral stardom. It stank of orchestration, but the effects were undeniable: Chuuya was suddenly the most sought-after model in the business, and GSM's reputation skyrocketed overnight.
Shirase's phone vibrated with another brand offer, the figures raising his eyebrows. He should have been elated. Instead, a chilly suspicion crept into his belly.
ᗺnʇ ʇɥᴉs ᴉs ʍɥɐʇ ɥǝ ɐsʞǝp ɟoɹ ɐuʎʍɐʎ
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
The repetitive clatter of train wheels against rails filled the mostly empty cabin as Chuuya approached Tokyo's forgotten area. Outside the dirty windows, the gleaming high-rises of downtown Tokyo faded into decrepit buildings with peeling paint and rusting fire escapes. He squirmed uneasily in his seat, the plastic bag carrying two boiling ramen pots sitting heavily on his lap.
(Not to mention Chuuya went down on his knees begging Shirase that he doesn’t need any bodyguards around him.)
Chuuya lowered the brim of his baseball cap down, ensuring that it concealed his unique orange hair. The throwaway mask covered the bottom half of his face, completing his improvised disguise. It was ironic: he could demand attention on international runways without hesitation, yet here in San'ya, invisibility was his most precious asset.
As the train approached Sanya Station, the automatic announcement echoed through the speakers with static-laced indifference. At this hour, the station was virtually deserted, with just a few old guys smoking near the exit and a salaryman sprawled drunkenly on a bench. Chuuya stood on the disintegrating concrete, his boots scuffing against decades of filth.
Narrow passageways snaked between buildings that appeared to rely on one another for stability. The air conveyed competing scents: the tantalizing perfume of yakitori from a neighboring stand mixed with the unpleasant aromas of old beer and industrial cleanser. In the distance, a karaoke bar's tinny speakers blared an off-key version of a 1970s enka tune.
Chuuya moved effortlessly across the familiar streets, waving briefly to the old shopkeeper who usually kept his newspaper stand open late. The man did not recognize him, which was just as well. After three left turns, he arrived at the drab concrete apartment complex that hadn't changed in twenty years. The stairs smelled like mildew and cheap tobacco, and the metal rails flaked rust on his palm as he ascended.
This had been his father's shelter after the divorce, when the nice Yokohama apartment they'd once shared became yet another casualty of his mother's absence. San'ya did not pass judgment. It did not ask any questions. It just existed, offering a safe refuge for individuals with no other options.
The memories came back like ghosts, especially one from eight years ago, when he waited with policemen, knees scraped and heartbeat thumping, waiting for his father at a police station near Miura Beach.
When he was eight years old, his mother abandoned him on that desolate coast. The details were jumbled—the burn of seawater on his bare knees, the way sand stuck to his wet clothing, the fading light as he remained immobile, too scared to move. Hours had passed before officials located him and contacted his father. Chuuya would never forget seeing his father storming through the station doors that night, his work clothes rumpled and his face blanched with dread and rage. Chuuya had never seen his father weep before until that very day.
Chuuya stopped outside of apartment 302. He lifted his hand and knocked twice, then paused before knocking again. Their previous code.
The door creaked open, revealing his father, who appeared older yet unchanged. The man's wide shoulders softened somewhat with time, but his stance remained military-straight. Chuuya was constantly drawn to the eyes, which were the same piercing cerulean blue as his own right iris, a genetic aberration that had passed down through generations until showing itself in Chuuya's heterochromia.
"You're fifteen minutes late," his father said, moving aside to let him in.
"Had to stop for the ramen," Chuuya replied, taking off his shoes with practiced ease.
The apartment was a time capsule of simple existence, with a single room where every square centimeter served numerous roles. The kitchenette's two-burner stove is also used as a drying rack for dishes. The low table showed the wounds of several meals and cigarette burns. A nicely folded futon sat against one wall, next to a television with a VCR still attached. The sole adornment was a single framed portrait on the wall of his father as a younger man standing with a woman whose face had been meticulously cut off.
Chuuya placed the meal containers on the table, and the delicious scent of tonkotsu soup quickly filled the confined room. "Got it from your favorite place," he replied, peeling open the lids to let out a cloud of aromatic steam.
“Ah, Covinc? You mean?”
“Yea.”
“Love that ramen shop.”
His father sank into the aged zabuton cushion with a faint sigh, his keen blue eyes fixed on Chuuya's face. "I saw your face on a magazine rack last week," he said between slurps of noodles. "American Vogue, wasn't it?"
“Yea, just shot it last week," Chuuya replied while grabbing a plateful of noodles. "The one with the chains."
His father made a noncommittal sound. "When you first told me you were getting into modeling, I thought it was the dumbest damn idea I'd ever heard." He aimed his chopsticks toward Chuuya. "But that Nebula Runway business—that was something else."
Chuuya's fingers clenched almost slightly on his utensils. "What about it?"
"You telling me they disqualified you for throwing a hat?" His father raised an eyebrow, skeptically. "Since when is having a personality against the rules?"
Chuuya's lips curved into a smile. "Since never. The entire thing was political nonsense."
His father leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. "So why'd they do it then?"
"Because some people can't handle it when you refuse to play their game," Chuuya explained, recalling Nikolai's grin. "Turns out unpredictability makes certain folks nervous."
His father laughed sharply. "And now you're more famous because of it?"
Chuuya shrugged, his move purposely nonchalant. "Fame is fickle. What counts is—" He went into his jacket pocket and pulled out a hefty envelope, sliding it across the table with two fingers. "-It pays."
His father did not instantly touch it. "You don't owe me anything, kid."
"I know." Chuuya held his eyes steady. "Just take it."
After a lengthy pause, his father pocketed the envelope and nodded. As they ate, the discussion fell into a comfortable calm, interrupted only by distant sounds from the city outside.
Then, his father cleared his throat. ‘You ever hear from your mother?"
The question struck like a physical blow. Chuuya placed his chopsticks carefully, his visage stiffening.
"No."
His father waited, but Chuuya said nothing more.
"The last time I saw her," Chuuya eventually explained, his voice dangerously calm, "was when she left me stranded on that fucking beach when I was eight."
His father clenched his jaw but did not say anything. There was nothing else to say.
The vapor from their ramen bowls curled between them in the tight area, the rich pork broth perfume mingling with the lingering odor of old tatami and cigarette smoke on the walls. Chuuya kept his mismatched gaze locked on his bowl—the left, warm brown like his mother's, and the right, ice-blue like his father's—as he went methodically through the noodles.
A memory arose unexpectedly.
"That brown eye of yours," his mother had remarked once, caressing his face with a passionate touch. "It's the only part of you she didn't take."
Chuuya's chopsticks remained static. He was six years old when his mom first told him about his father's second wife, the lady who purportedly enticed him away and whose blue eyes his father allegedly worshiped while turning distant toward his own son.
His dad cleared his throat across the table. "You're thinking too loud."
Chuuya grinned, without looking up. "Just wondering when you're gonna fix that leak under your sink."
His father lets out a chuckle, “Maybe when world leaders start doing useful things, I will.”
It was a familiar dance between them: evasion veiled in reality. Even before the divorce, his father was not known for his caring nature. A construction foreman who worked long hours, he'd shown affection with harsh pats on the back and the odd surprise present left on the kitchen counter—a new baseball glove when Chuuya joined the school team, a used guitar when he suggested wanting to play.
After the divorce, Chuuya lived with his mom in Yokohama while his father stayed in Tokyo. Only 3 years later, he was abandoned by her.
But Chuuya still cared about his dad. Whatever bullshit his mother spat at him that night was just devious. He knows his dad. He loves his dad, even just a little bit.
He didn’t abandon Chuuya like that.
They completed their dinner in silence, the weight of unspoken words hanging between them. When Chuuya got up to depart, his father led him to the door. For a long time, they just stood there, two obstinate guys with the same blue eyes and the same set in their jaw.
"Next time," his father said, "bring that whiskey you models drink."
Chuuya sneered. "Only if you promise not to water it down."
Outside, San'ya's neon lights flashed on endlessly.
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
Recovered from Nebula Runway Secure Servers: Forensic Reconstruction
The clip shows Sigma sitting in a black leather chair, his dual-toned hair—platinum white on the left and pastel pink on the right—absolutely motionless under the studio's exact lighting. His gloved hands are resting on the armrests, his fingers flexing in what looks to be a controlled breathing practice.
The journalist speaks first, slick and practiced: "The fashion industry has been buzzing over Nakahara's disqualification. Many people consider it an overreaction to what was really a spontaneous moment of expression."
Sigma's lips form a narrow line before answering. "Spontaneity has a place. However, when it disturbs the carefully managed story of eighteen distinct designers, it loses its meaning and becomes... contamination."
A pen scratched the page. "Yet, historically, the most memorable runway moments have frequently occurred unexpectedly. McQueen's spray-paint outfit and Galliano's pirate stumble..."
"All of this happened during finale walks," Sigma says, his voice growing sharper. "Not during critical transitions between collections. There is a hierarchy to these things, which Nakahara decided to disregard."
The journalist leans forward substantially. "Some hypothesize the real issue was Nakahara's increasing influence threatening Nebula's control over..."
Sigma's hand rises, cutting short the words. "Let me be completely clear. This was not about Nakahara. This was to safeguard the event's integrity. When one model's
'moment' overshadows months of work by hundreds of creatives; it is not fashion but rather narcissism.”
There is a little pause. Then ask carefully, "Would you say the same thing about Mark Twain's hat toss in 2013?"
Sigma's eyes narrowed. "Mark understood the rhythm of a performance. He understood when to demand attention and when to provide it. That is the distinction between a professional and... whatever this was."
The questions get sharper. "There are speculations of discord within the Nebula leadership over this choice. Some claim Nikolai lobbied for..."
"Internal discussions remain internal," Sigma snaps, losing his cool for the first time. A deep breath. "What matters is we maintained the standard Nebula is known for."
Sigma rises up unexpectedly at the end of the interview. "I think we're done here." His leaving comments are unmistakably final: "The industry will remember Nakahara's foolish hat toss. But it will maintain Nebula's constancy."
The tape ends abruptly.
(This material is the property of The Nebula Runway Internal Affairs. Unauthorized dissemination will result in the immediate termination of the contract and legal action.)
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
The Vanishing of Y: Fashion's Most Mysterious Muse Disappears Without a Trace
By Ango Sakaguchi
12/11/0000
Fashion Insider.
IRKUTSK, RUSSIA— One of fashion's most enigmatic individuals is missing. The male model known only as Y, whose stunning runway appearance dazzled designers but who consciously shunned the spotlight, went missing three nights ago in this isolated Russian city on November 12th. His final recorded sighting was at 2:17 a.m. outside the partially collapsed Hotel Zvezda, when his tall form was briefly captured in the flickering light of a shattered hotel sign before fleeing down a dark alley.
A shadow in the spotlight.
Y, unlike typical models, resided on the outskirts of fashion. My records reveal that he walked in just 41 shows over seven years, usually for designers who valued mystery above notoriety. His most memorable moment was at Owens' FW21 TV show, when he appeared with gilded chains weighing down his wrists and his face hidden by a shower of black horsehair.
"He didn't model garments," stylist Dumont said, her voice unusually low when I contacted her in Rome. "He modeled absence itself."
The empty room
Arriving to Y's hotel, I discovered a scene that was more lyrical than ominous:
The bed's spotless linens showed no signs of sleep.
23 Russian cigarettes (his favored Prima brand) stubbed out in precise lines down the bathroom sink.
"Winter remembers what summer forgets" was jotted on a hotel notebook.
The most illuminating item in the closet was the Boris Bidjan Saberi leather jacket he'd worn to every casting for five years. It included a one-way ferry ticket to Sakhalin Island due for tomorrow, a dried edelweiss flower, and a small bottle of black ink with the cork removed.
Industry's Deafening Silence
What bothers me the most is not the disappearance, but the fashion community's tepid reaction. While model disappearances often cause social media frenzy, my sources reply with skilled deflections. Only Gin, a makeup artist who collaborated closely with Y, broke the quiet.
"He told me last month, 'Sakaguchi will write my final portrait.' I thought he meant a profile piece."
A Personal Postscript.
In my career photographing fashion's fleeting delights, Y has remained the most intriguing riddle. He declined all of my interview requests, but he would leave handwritten messages at my seat during shows—always on thick cotton paper, unsigned. The final one stated, "You'll find the story when you stop looking."
As local authorities launch their inquiry, I keep coming back to my favorite image of Y—a Polaroid taken backstage at Kohji Yamamoto's anniversary exhibition, where he stood half-turned from the camera, his shoulder bones projecting like wings beneath translucent fabric.
Outside my hotel window, the Russian winter continues its somber job, burying the tiny remnants of fashion's most beautiful ghost. Perhaps this was always his intended conclusion—not an ending, but a meticulously choreographed act…
Ango Sakaguchi is Fashion Insider's senior correspondent. His next book, "Phantom Runway: The Models Who Walked Away," will be released next year.
[UPDATE, 3:02 PM] Interpol has announced the commencement of a missing person inquiry. Y's final digital trace was a text message to an untraceable phone number:
"I can see the tower."
EDITOR'S NOTE: Fashion Insider follows stringent guidelines while investigating missing people instances. Any information on Y should be forwarded to the Irkutsk authorities.
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
The blue light of Chuuya's laptop screen cut through the darkness of his room (a room that Yuan gave him since it was one of the extra rooms of her father’s penthouse), laying long shadows over the half-packed baggage from his previous trip. Rain tapped insistently at the windows, adding subtle rhythm to the static in his thoughts. His inbox was full with unopened interview requests, schedule issues, and another passive-aggressive email from Shirase about "brand consistency."
His finger stopped mid-scroll.
A saved draft to his mother’s email: Hey, can we talk?
He remembers that night. Very well.
He recently joined GSM and wanted to let his mom know that he will try to save up money for his—
A new email appeared in the upper right of his screen, dragging him back to the present.
Subject: I Will Pay You To Allow Me To Interview You.
Chuuya,
Look, I am not beyond begging. In fact, I am already on my knees as I type this (my assistant is judging me, but she has become used to it).
The Osaka Photo Event will be held around mid-June. Of course, you already know this. You also know that every other journalist there will be asking you the same boring questions about "inspiration" and "creative process" while speaking in that robotic voice. In contrast, I guarantee to engage in genuine discourse. The type where we might actually—dare I say it—have fun.
Please. My editor says if I don't get a Chuuya Nakahara interview this quarter, I'll have to start covering furry trends. FURRY TRENDS, I REPEAT!!! Chuuya, don't do this to me.
—Ranpoe
P.S. If you say no, I'll use the title "Chuuya Nakahara: Too Iconic To Show Up?" and you'll have to deal with the fact that you technically caused clickbait.
P.P.S. If you really don't want to, please forward this email to Shirase and let him laugh at my pain. I accept my fate.
P.P.P.S. If you say no in actuality, I will write an article anyhow. Your silence will become its own quote.
P.P.P.P.S. Never mind, I don’t want to write about furries. Please accept.
Chuuya's lips twitched as he reread the email. The amber light from his desk lamp struck the leather edge of his gifted choker as he grabbed for his espresso cup. The cup left a faint ring on the polished mahogany while he pondered the invitation.
His fingers hesitated over the keys before making a usually concise response:
"Have your questions ready. I don't repeat myself."
A reply immediately.
“GREATTTTTTTT!!! Added ya to the list! Thanks!”
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
The photographic studio was silent but for the occasional click of a camera shutter. Soft light flooded the room, revealing the huge screen where test photos of Odasaku—Mode Mafia's most dependable and adored model—were being evaluated.
Dazai was not meant to be here.
In fact, he wasn't meant to be anyplace with actual work. He missed events, rejected runway summonses, and saw photography schedules as vague suggestions rather than commitments. And yet, here he was, browsing idly through a photographer's portfolio while the poor fellow stood stiffly behind him, perspiration beading on his brow.
Hmm…this angle isn't bad, he thought, touching his chin. "However, Odasaku appears to be held at gunpoint. You should strive to capture him in a calm state, perhaps in the middle of a giggle."
The photographer nodded hesitantly and jotted down notes.
At fourteen, Dazai was every designer's favorite—Mode Mafia's youngest star, a natural in front of the camera who moved with almost disturbing ease. Editors described him as "the boy who could sell sunlight to the sun." But by fifteen, he was bored. "There's no competition," he'd said one day, dismissing a runway booking like an old shirt. Just like that, the industry's hottest young star became its most elusive ghost.
Dazai's bandages were his trademark—a tangled web of gauze that usually covered his left eye and snagged down his neck beneath his garments. Rumor has it that he began wrapping himself up following a questionable occurrence at the age of fourteen, but knowing Dazai, it might have simply been for aesthetic reasons.
During Paris Fashion Week, he wore blood-red bandages to a Comme des Garçons show. In Milan, he covered them in beautiful black lace for Prada. The fashion press fixated on each variant, but Dazai remained notoriously mute about their significance. The bandages served as both his armor and his canvas, hiding and bringing attention to the aspects of himself he desired to hide.
He was still theoretically a ModeMafia member at seventeen, but he only turned up for around one out of every twenty reservations. Mori hadn't let him go for two reasons: first, the results of Dazai's work were still magnificent, and second, while neither would acknowledge it, they were family in the chaotic, mafia-esque manner that fashion companies can be.
"Odasaku looks like he's contemplating tax fraud in this one," Dazai stated while pointing to a test image on the display. The photographer, a new recruit, appeared unwell.
Odasaku—a former security guard and driver turned surprising modeling sensation—had been Dazai's closest buddy since his prodigy days. Whereas Dazai was all sharp edges and planned recklessness, Odasaku was constant kindness, the type of man who would cancel a shoot to assist trapped kittens. Their friendship puzzled the company.
The third member of this odd trio was Ango Sakaguchi, Fashion Insider's most brutally analytical writer, who penned harsh criticisms during the day and crocheted impossibly complex amigurumi at night. For Dazai's fifteenth birthday—back when he still appeared to care about things—Ango had sewn him a sunflower keychain, its petals somewhat uneven due to Ango becoming distracted mid-stitch by a breaking fashion scandal.
("It's ugly," Dazai exclaimed upon getting it, then quickly attached it to his favorite backpack, where it has stayed ever since, sun-bleached and tearing apart at the edges.)
Just then, the studio doors opened, and Mori Ougai—Mode Mafia's boss—entered. His violet, piercing eyes quickly fell on Dazai, and a knowing sneer pulled at his lips.
"Dazai," Mori said easily. "I did not expect to see you here. Have you finally decided to take your job seriously?"
Dazai sighed heavily. "Boss, you wounded me! I am always serious about art." He waved vaguely at the screen. "Someone has to make sure Odasaku's photos don't turn out lifeless."
Mori giggled. "How generous of you." He dug under his coat and took out a slick invitation. "Speaking of art—I came to ask if you'd reconsider attending the Osaka Photo Event next week."
Dazai made a face. "Pass. These things are usually stuffy. Just a bunch of people pretending to understand 'depth' and 'composition' while sipping expensive champagne."
Mori was undeterred. "What if I told you the guest list might interest you?" He handed Dazai a tablet that showed the confirmed guests.
Dazai scanned lazily until he came upon a name that made him pause.
Chuuya Nakahara.
His lips quiver.
Dazai returned the tablet with a sigh. "Fine, I'll go."
Mori lifted an eyebrow. "Just like that? No complaints?"
Dazai shrugged with a sly twinkle in his eye. "What can I say? I want to see him for my—”
“I don’t care, dear Dazai; I’m just in utter shock that I will have to confirm your presence at an event now.” Mori turned as he started marching out of the room. “Hmmm, when was the last time I did that?”