The fitting room of the Genesis studio was a hall of mirrors, bright and blindingly white. It was a space designed to expose every flaw, every stray thread, and every dip in a contestant's posture.
Madame Vora, the lead costumer—a woman whose hands smelled perpetually of lavender and cigarette smoke—moved around Shanshan like a silent predator. She was draping a gown for the "Ambition" stage: a dress of stiff, architectural silver that felt less like clothing and more like a cage.
"Hold your breath," Madame Vora commanded, her pins held between her teeth.
Shanshan obeyed, her ribs aching against the structured bodice. Through the mirror, she saw the door open. Meilin walked in, her footsteps rhythmic and certain. She had traded her morning robe for a tailored charcoal suit that made her look ten years older and a thousand miles away.
"The neckline is too low," Meilin said, not offering a greeting. She walked toward Shanshan, her eyes scanning the silver fabric with a cold, professional detachedness. "She needs to look like a weapon, not a victim. Raise the collar. I want her neck protected."
Madame Vora grunted but began to adjust the pins. "Protection isn't usually the aesthetic for a 'Vixen' profile, Miss Li."
"The 'Vixen' profile is being retired for this round," Meilin replied, her gaze finally meeting Shanshan's in the reflection. "She is singing a song about struggle. She should look like she's already won the war."
Shanshan watched Meilin's reflection. The coldness from the breakfast table was still there, a wall of ice that seemed thicker than ever. Yet, as Meilin stepped closer to inspect the stitching near Shanshan's shoulder, her hand brushed against Shanshan's bare skin.
It was a brief, accidental contact, but the air in the room seemed to vanish.
Meilin's fingers lingered for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. In that tiny window of time, the "Ice Queen" faltered. Her eyes, usually so sharp and predatory, softened into a look of profound, silent exhaustion.
Stay away from me, the look seemed to say. But please, don't leave.
"The thread is loose here," Meilin whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the air conditioning. She reached out, her fingers trembling almost imperceptibly as she smoothed the silver fabric over Shanshan's heart.
"Meilin," Shanshan murmured, her voice a fragile thread of sound. "Why are you doing this? If I'm just an 'asset,' why do you care if the collar is high or the thread is loose?"
Meilin pulled her hand back as if the silver were white-hot. She straightened her charcoal blazer, the mask sliding back into place with a terrifying, mechanical snap.
"Because a flawed asset is a reflection of its manager," Meilin said, her voice returning to its tonal vacuum. "Madame Vora, finish the hem. I want her in the rehearsal hall by noon. No excuses."
Meilin turned and walked out, the heavy door thudding shut behind her.
Shanshan stood in the center of the mirrors, the silver dress weighing her down. She looked at the spot on her shoulder where Meilin's hand had been. The skin there felt cold, but the memory of the touch was burning.
She realized then that Meilin wasn't just building a wall to keep Shanshan out. She was building it to keep herself in.