Chapter Text
The three little dots beneath Assistant Kim's name continued blinking at the top of the screen.
Till stared at them from across the studio, his phone abandoned somewhere between scattered sketchbooks and half-empty coffee cups. The glow from the screen cut through the darkness of the room, illuminating piles of expensive fabrics draped over chairs, unfinished patterns pinned to walls, and countless sheets of paper littering the floor like fallen leaves.
Every corner of the studio was overflowing with work. Milan. Sponsors. Investors. Fittings. Production schedules. Revisions. Demands. It felt as though the entire fashion industry had decided that his next decision was the only thing keeping the world from ending.
Another notification vibrated against the table.
Till dragged a hand through his hair and looked away. If they wanted something extraordinary, they could learn to wait for it. Good designs did not appear because someone sent twenty messages before midnight. They did not emerge from pressure or deadlines or executives breathing down his neck. They came when they came. Yet nobody seemed capable of understanding that. They wanted sketches tonight, approvals tonight, revisions tonight, as though creativity could be squeezed out like water from a cloth.
His pencil hovered over the page.
Nothing.
The blank sheet stared back at him.
For weeks now, every line he drew felt wrong. Every silhouette looked lifeless. Every concept felt like something he had already done before. He crumpled another sheet and tossed it aside, where it joined dozens of others scattered across the floor. The sight of them made irritation twist in his chest. Months of work. Hundreds of commissions. Runways. Magazine covers. Luxury campaigns. Entire collections carrying his name. People called him a genius. A visionary. An artist.
Yet he couldn't draw a single design he didn't hate.
Till leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. The ache behind them had been growing worse lately. At first it had been nothing more than occasional headaches after long nights of work. Then came the blurriness, brief moments where words seemed to smear together before snapping back into focus. He had ignored it every time. There was always another deadline. Another collection. Another meeting. Another reason to deal with it later.
His vision blurred again.
This time it lingered.
The sketches in front of him softened at the edges. The sharp lines became smudges. Colors bled together. Till blinked hard and reached for his glasses despite not needing them. When he looked down again, the page remained distorted.
He stood up too quickly, nearly knocking over a mannequin beside his desk. The room swayed around him. A sharp pain shot through his eyes, sudden and vicious, forcing him to squeeze them shut. It felt as though needles had been driven directly into the backs of them. His stomach dropped. When he opened them again, the studio looked worse.
Far worse.
The walls were fading.
Shapes dissolved into one another. The scattered fabrics on the floor became patches of color without form. The glow of his phone across the room stretched into a pale smear of light.
Panic arrived slowly at first.
Then all at once.
Till stumbled forward, knocking papers aside. His heartbeat thundered against his ribs as he tried focusing on anything, a chair, a sketchbook, the edge of his desk, but everything continued slipping away. He blinked repeatedly until his eyes burned. Nothing changed.
No.
No, no, no.
The pain intensified.
He doubled over, clutching his face. It felt as though something was clawing its way through his skull from behind his eyes. Every instinct screamed that something was terribly wrong. The room spun. His breathing became uneven. Somewhere nearby, his phone vibrated again.
The sound.
Focus on the sound.
Till lurched toward it.
His hands stretched blindly in front of him as he followed the vibration across the studio. Another notification buzzed. Closer. He took another hurried step and his foot caught on something lying across the floor. Fabric. Sketches. He didn't know.
His body slammed forward.
Pain exploded through his shoulder as he crashed into the corner of a worktable before hitting the ground. The impact knocked the air from his lungs. For several seconds he could do nothing except lie there gasping. Tears streamed from his eyes uncontrollably, partly from pain and partly from terror.
Because he couldn't see.
Nothing.
Till's hands shook violently as they scraped across the floor searching for his phone. His fingers caught paper after paper, crumpled sketches, fabric samples, measuring tapes, anything except what he needed. Another vibration sounded somewhere nearby.
"Come on," he choked out.
His voice sounded unfamiliar.
Desperate.
The phone buzzed again.
Till crawled toward it, trembling so hard he could barely move. Every second felt longer than the last. His breathing became frantic. The darkness remained unchanged no matter how wide he opened his eyes. Nothing appeared. No light. No shapes. No shadows.
Genuine fear settled into his chest.
Something was wrong. Something was horribly, catastrophically wrong.