IN BETWEEN

LET THE GAMES BEGIN.

The assignment was taped to the wall just outside studio B, printed in bold capital letters.

MID-SEMESTER FIRST-YEAR COMPETITION: FASHION SHOWCASE

Raina read through the details.

Deadline: two weeks.

Theme: Urban Icons.

Students stood frozen, stunned, or already buzzing like moths—some excited, others panicked.

A few laughed nervously, bravado masking fear beneath it.

Raina scanned the criteria. She swallowed hard.

Below the title, the rules were precise:

• Open to all first-years

• One original look and one prototype

• Must show clear personal storytelling within a limited prompt

• Judges include a surprise guest from the fashion board of governors

• Designs must include wearable elements suitable for live presentation

• Finalists will present their work in a runway format

It felt less like a project and more like a test.

Imani leaned over. “So… no pressure?”

Raina huffed a breath. “None at all.”That was when the click of high heels on polished marble sliced through the tension like scissors through silk.

Adelaide Kingston.

She was a vision in head-to-toe cream: tailored slacks, a cashmere turtleneck, a dramatic floor-length coat that billowed slightly behind her.

Her hair was a perfect twist of honey-blonde, and she wore red lipstick like a weapon.

Every conversation went quiet.

“Good morning,” she said, her voice like chilled prosecco—refined with a slight edge beneath it.

“I’m Adelaide Kingston, the assigned supervisor for this year’s foundation cohort. That means I’m watching your progress, your professionalism, and yes, your performance in competitions like this one.”

She turned her gaze on the group, eyes sweeping like radar. When they landed on Raina and Imani, her stare lingered a beat too long.

“You may be from different walks of life,” she continued. “But here, everyone competes equally. The only thing that sets you apart is excellence.”

She pivoted with model precision and walked away, heels echoing.

Raina blinked. “Did she just look at us like we tracked dirt on the floor?”

“Girl,” Imani whispered. “She looked at us like we are the dirt on the floor.”

They laughed, but something uncomfortable curled in Raina’s chest—the line between opportunity and threat felt thin and shimmering, like silk thread.

That night, their apartment was a mess of papers, pencils, fabric scraps, and half-eaten noodles.

Raina sat cross-legged on the floor, sketching furiously.Her page showed a vintage 1950s silhouette reimagined with raw seams and unexpected cuts—a clash of past elegance and future grit.

Imani was sprawled on the bed, flipping through design books for inspiration.

“What if I flipped a Victorian corset into streetwear?”

“Go off,” Raina grinned, shading the hemline.

Outside, New York roared.

Inside, ambition bloomed—fast, fragile, and hungry.