"My lungs are burning."
The lead model stopped at the end of the illuminated catwalk. Her chest heaved.
She did not pose for the cameras. She stood like a victorious warlord surveying a conquered territory.
The final heavy bass note echoed through the massive venue. The sound faded into the thick concrete walls.
Ryan Parker lifted his hands away from the transparent acrylic keys.
The ten thousand elite guests sat in stunned silence. They forgot how to breathe. The biological resonance released their hijacked nervous systems.
Then the grand armory erupted.
It was not polite applause. It was a hysterical, deafening roar. Wealthy venture capitalists stood on their velvet chairs and screamed. Fashion critics threw their luxury notebooks onto the floor.
Backstage, Isabella Rossi fell to
