To put it plain and simple: Domon Asuke was fucked and he did not know what he had done to deserve this. Everything started great when Domon woke up in the morning, fresh and well-rested, a feeling he rarely encountered in his busy life split between last-minute speed-running articles at midnight and editing photos of fashionistas who thought way too highly of themselves. So when Domon woke up energized in the morning, he should have been more suspicious, really. But it only occurred to him after he had brushed his teeth and had his lazy morning coffee to glance at the digital clock on the coffee table which was… in the simplest of terms… not working. The numbers 04:32 were blinking on the screen accusingly, which could only mean that there had been a power shortage at around dawn. The third fucking time this month. Domon stopped dead in his tracks (and in his pajamas) to take a look at his phone. Shit, it was already 8:30. The journalist cursed, throwing his phone in his bag while trying to strip off his pajamas at the same time. Shitshitshit , he elaborated further to himself as he haphazardly threw on a shirt and plucked his camera's battery from its charger on the wall. He hoped that despite the shortage, the batteries still had some juice in them. He quickly tossed the camera into its textile case, pondering his options. If he managed to catch the metro leaving in seven minutes, he might just make it. He cursed his stupid decision to move the digital clock into the living room, but the bastard machinery made such ungodly alarm sounds that it would give him a heart attack if it were to go off in his bedroom. Hit by a sudden burst of determination, Domon slipped on his loafers and closed the door behind his apartment with more force than it would have been necessary. His shoulder bag was practically holding onto dear life as he made a run for the station, ignoring the curious stares he earned along the way.

He just cannot fuck this up, not when this was his biggest opportunity ever since he entered the scene of fashion journalism, just fresh out of college. Domon has been working as a fashion journalist for four years now, and maybe that was the problem: maybe his content started to lack originality or it was just due to the sudden rise of self-proclaimed tik-tok influencers, make up artists and thrift girlies, but Domon was not doing so well in terms of money. His agency paid him by his articles, but also by the popularity of his articles which left a lot to be desired in terms of engagement. Domon was sure that it was the internet's fault: these youngsters raised on five minute make-up tutorials would never be able to understand the fine details of the honored craft that was fashion, let alone read about it!

But this gig, he swore to himself he wouldn't fuck it up. It was Tokyo Fashion Week and every reporter worth their salt from teenage girls on social media to world famous fashion moguls fixed their gaze (and pens and keyboards and cameras) onto the imposing catwalks of the capital of Japan. Domon, being a mid-tier journalist at an averagely acclaimed journal with a dwindling fanbase, failed to snag a press pass (not that anyone expected him to get one in the first place). Luckily, his best friend came through: Ichinose Kazuya, world-renowned football player, fashion icon and the object of adoration of many adolescent girls had managed to pull a few strings and get him a press pass. Ichinose could convince the hot model chick he was currently seeing to put in a good word for Domon's agency and the next day, Domon found a velvet black lanyard on his desk with his name and "PRESS" on the tag. Domon was most grateful for his best friend's help which made the fact that he might just miss the whole shabang starting at 10:00 am even more so embarrassing.

He tried not to cringe too hard as he stepped out of the metro car he luckily managed to catch, and took off, taking the escalator two steps at a time, ignoring the other passengers' scandalized stares. Of course this would happen on the only day when everything hinged on him being in the right place at the right time! As he quickened his steps (he still needed to cover ten minutes of walking within seven minutes, or ideally, within five) he tried to make a mental list of any potential disasters. He had no clue how long his camera's battery would last but if push came to shove, his Iphone made decent pictures enough. Since live streams were forbidden during Tokyo Fashion Week, novelty preceded quality: the first ones to report on the event got the most views, not those who had the most perfect pictures. Domon would try to take perfect photos anyway but he was not in a position to aim higher than "good enough" at the moment.

If he was really honest with himself, for all the glitz and glamour, Domon was not fond of fashion weeks anyway: they tended to center around female clothing too much, while his main interests lay in men's streetwear. But obviously, Ichinose's chick asked the lanyard for Domon specifically which might have earned him some jealous glances from his female colleagues in the office who would have been much more suited for Fashion Week, but he felt little remorse: fashion was a dog-eat-dog world after all, just as much about connections as craftsmanship.

Domon's lungs were begging for mercy but he was not in a merciful mood at the moment. The building was a glorious tower of glass windows with multiple stories and it seemed to be shining condescendingly down on him as he pushed the glass doors open with much less grace than the occasion would have required. He waved his pass at the security guard, then scanned it at the electric gate: he was lucky that his show was on the ground floor. As a good journalist, he had done his research before the event: he knew that the collection presented by the fashion brand Aldena would be centered around buzzwords like "chic", "formal wear" and "postmodern" which honestly gave him no clue on what to expect other than it was surely to be way out of his comfort zone.

The door was already closed but thankfully it gave when Domon pushed the silver handle down. He glanced at his watch: 10:02. He just barely made it. The commentator was already on stage surrounded in the sharp white halo of stage lights and he was in the middle of introducing the collection. Thankful for the dimness, Domon made his way among the rows of seats, whispering soft sorrys and trying to ignore the low grumbling of those who were forced to stand up to let him through. He peeked a glance at his pass to find his seat: A22, the letter corresponding to the row and the letter to the seat. In regular shows, the lettering of rows usually started from the back, A referring to the furthest row, and the one closest to the end of the alphabet would mean the closest one to the runway. To Domon's shock and surprise, Tokyo Fashion Week did the reverse: the journalist tried to calm his heartbeat as the realization hit him that he was going to be sitting in the first row.

Shit, Ichinose's girl was not fooling around, that's for sure! The poor woman must be smitten with Ichinose if she arranged a seat in the front row for his best friend, someone she could have only heard about. Ichinose was very adamant about keeping his love life and professional life separate, and Domon separate from both of those things. Despite Ichinose's good appearance and charming personality, the football player failed to keep a girl for more than three months and he did not want to risk his friends getting way too attached to any of his girlfriends for that reason. The tabloids called him a womanizer but Domon suspected that his best friend might have some underlying issues concerning commitment and that was why he was secretive about his partners, even in front of Domon. The journalist humored Ichinose for his nonsense, understanding that this was his way of regaining some control over his life. Not that Domon would not instantly side with Ichinose if he had any sort of conflict with his girlfriend: their friendship ran deeper than that, he made that clear to Ichinose a long time ago. Bros before… supermodels , or something like that.

The presenter now moved aside and the stage light increased tenfold the same time as the lights above the audience went out. Right, time to get to work . Domon took out his camera and angled it towards the stage.

The first model to enter the stage was a petite girl with bubblegum-pink pigtails. Her hair was styled in small little bubbles and the orange eye makeup only further enhanced her youthful features. To snag a position at a brand like Aldena so early on in one's career can only mean that she was especially talented, Domon knew this much at least. He did not know whether to be impressed or feel pity for the girl for dropping into the fashion scene at such a young age. Shaking himself out of his thoughts of sympathy, he turned his head to observe the outfit. The model was wearing a two-piece set made of black satin that glistened under the white stage legs of the dress pants were exaggerated to absurd proportions, exceeding the size of regular flares; Domon could almost hear the swooshing of the material as the model passed him. Embroidered fire lilies climbed up her pants' legs in orange and salmon threads; her blazer had the same pattern on the lapels. The model wore a comically ruffled white blouse under the blazer and the whole outfit was topped off (if Domon could afford the pun) with a top hat. The journalist broke out in cold sweat. The outfit was no doubt pretty but this style was way out of his league; he did not know if he could do it justice in his writing. He felt dread climbing up his throat. What the hell was he doing here anyway? He looked around in panic; the guests seated were all dressed in over-the-top outfits with crazy accessories and here he was, just regular old Domon in a black t-shirt and cargo pants. The realization hit like a punch to his gut: he was severely underdressed and severely underqualified for this event.

By the time the girl reached the end of the runway, Domon managed to gather his bearings. The journalist rarely felt small but the atmosphere of the crowd emanating such high class and professionalism started to mess with his head. However, he would not fuck up this up; he had promised himself he would not. Most importantly, Domon could not put his childhood best friend to shame after he went so out of his comfort zone to help him. He reached for his camera and quickly snapped a few shots only to fight back an exasperated groan. Ichinose's girl might have managed to snag a spot in the front row but the seats were arranged in the shape of a U around the catwalk and his place was the last chair at the end of the U, almost at the jut of the stage. It was impossible to get a good shot from here, by the time the model would be close enough for Domon to capture the outfit, she would be obscured by the expensive-looking velour curtains on the two sides of the stage. Domon grumbled and got out of his seat. He would need to move closer to get a better shot. Getting up seemed like a rude gesture at an event like this but Domon's previous experiences at fashion shows were that photographers with little inhibition would do that every now and then. And oh boy did Domon not give a fuck about these mighty ass fashion moguls at the moment! He still crouched down to avoid causing an uproar amongst the people sitting behind him. There was brave and there was foolish, and Domon prided himself in usually knowing the difference.

The next model appeared on stage and Domon's heart jumped in his throat. The woman was tall, taller than the previous model at least and her height was further played up by her hairstyle: she was wearing blue-black box braids twisted into a large bun on top of her head. A few braids slipped their confinement (or, more likely, were intentionally left out by a hairstylist) and showed off how the model's own blue hair transitioned seamlessly into black extensions midway through the braids. The contrast was striking, especially with her vivid purple makeup, complimenting her dark skin. For a moment, Domon forgot to look at her outfit, completely enthralled by the extravagance of the model herself. Then he was all professionalism again, observing the clothes in front of him. The model was wearing a form-fitting lilac dress, satin ruffles cascading down the neckline. The dress was most likely an off shoulder one but the woman's shoulders were obscured by an oversized dark blue tuxedo jacket ornate with digitally printed roses. The influence of Y2K , his brain helpfully supplied, as his writing gears finally started kicking after much delay. The homage to the early 2000s is clear in this design of Aldena's: the digital floral print gracefully mingles with the sleek and clean style of formal wear. The overexaggerated, floor-length swallow-tails pay a respectful nod to the high-fashion of corporate dressing while doing justice to Aldena's personal style that is usually characterized by the enlargement of garments to an almost disproportionate degree. Yes, that definitely sounded professional in Domon's head.

Engrossed in his own thoughts about his article, Domon realised that he almost forgot to take pictures yet again as the model finished her poses at the end of the catwalk and turned to leave the stage on Domon's side. The journalist crept a few steps closer again and his loafers bumped against the ridge of something hard, causing his stance to waver in his awkward crouch. To save the precious cargo, Domon raised the camera in his hands up above his head on instinct as he tried to regain his balance. He looked down at his feet and realized that he had gotten too close to the stage: he managed to stumble onto the large cables running along the foot of the elevated platform of the catwalk. He let out a shaky breath in relief: he had almost tripped over them and mentally chided himself for his unawareness. He could have fallen! Just as the thought crossed his mind, Domon felt a tug at his hands and suddenly, the camera was abruptly jerked from his hold by the strap of the machine that Domon should have been wearing around his neck. He turned his head in fear towards the catwalk, towards where his camera disappeared to but the stage lights were too blinding for him to see anything. Unfortunately, his hearing was working just fine: he heard the sound of lens shattering as well as the deadly silence that fell onto the ridiculously large room afterwards. Then, the woman on the stage fell over with a dull thud and a sharp scream. Chaos erupted.