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At the finale of Cruella's menswear show, a model with clearly feminine features stepped onto the men's runway—instantly causing an uproar in the fashion world.
It wasn't that no one had ever done this before. But to do it here, on Paris's most important stage—and to create this level of impact—was unprecedented.
In terms of avant-garde experimentation, London Fashion Week was usually the boldest among the Big Four. But pulling this off at Paris Menswear Ready-to-Wear was practically pushing the limits of market acceptance.
And yet—
The one walking the runway was the Tiger Beauty who had recently gone viral in TV commercials.
From the wild, feline-accompanied womenswear in advertisements to the sharp, commanding presence in menswear on the runway, what she projected wasn't the regal, queen-like aura of the five supermodels—like Cindy Crawford.
Instead, it was something more dominant.
Something undefined.
A presence that refused categorization—stepping onto a stage that "belonged" to men.
Even as the flashes from countless cameras flooded the runway like a sea of light—"film murder," as photographers called it—Charlize Theron completed her single walk flawlessly.
Probably only Henry could tell—
She was channeling the essence of Marlon Brando and Al Pacino from The Godfather.
Her gait wasn't the typical model walk.
It wasn't the feminine, straight-line step designed to accentuate hip sway.
Her steps were wider, more grounded—placed deliberately left and right, carrying weight and authority.
The only thing constraining her was time.
She couldn't walk too fast or too slow—she had to hit the mark perfectly.
And she did.
A performance so complete that even she might never replicate it again.
---
The result?
The black trench coat, paired with an off-white plaid vest, a crisp white shirt, black trousers, and that tilted plaid bowler hat—
All of it triggered a wave of inquiries and orders.
Customers came from both genders.
It shattered the notion that menswear was only for men—or that "female-friendly menswear" somehow didn't suit actual men.
Who said slimmer, smaller-built men couldn't look sharp and commanding?
This wave alone had Cruella grinning from ear to ear.
---
An unexpected bonus followed.
When the news made its way back to the U.S., The Rock—already in its fourth week—experienced a renewed surge at the box office.
Even though Charlize had only a few scenes, audiences were curious to see how this "headline beauty" performed on screen.
The buzz was so strong that J.J. Harris called across the ocean to discuss Charlize's next steps.
If Henry hadn't been preparing to return to Los Angeles, she might have flown to Paris herself.
Previously, due to vampire interference, Charlize had lost several opportunities.
Now, not only were some of those offers returning—her salary had room for negotiation.
Some projects even voluntarily raised their pay.
Both J.J. Harris and Charlize felt a long-overdue sense of vindication.
Auditions followed the same trend.
Major productions that had once shown little interest were now extending invitations.
Of course, most offers were still runway-related—modeling agencies eager to sign her.
But Charlize had no intention of pursuing that path.
She knew exactly where her future lay: Hollywood.
Acting across all roles—not surviving on youth and starving herself into a skeleton.
---
After a call with her agent in Paris, Charlize looked at Henry with a strange expression.
It made his scalp prickle.
"What?"
"Jen told me—you invested in Titanic. Sixty-five million dollars."
"And you're asking why I didn't get you a role?"
"She told me to ask you to arrange one."
Henry explained, "I've read the script. Aside from the female lead, there's no standout supporting role that suits you.
"Cameron did say he could give you a small part—but he wasn't exactly enthusiastic.
"You really think joining a 'set tyrant' like him under those conditions would be pleasant?"
"And the schedule conflicts with your current work. Dropping everything for an insignificant role—it's not worth it."
"…What about the female lead?" Charlize asked, aiming high.
Henry gave her a simple, irrefutable answer.
"You don't fit James Cameron's aesthetic. He prefers fuller, more rounded women."
"…Alright."
She knew when to let go.
What Henry didn't say—
Was that the film would truly elevate only one person: the director.
The leads would gain fame—but their acting careers would actually suffer from it.
Being part of it wasn't necessarily a blessing.
---
Back in Los Angeles, both of them dove straight into work.
J.J. Harris continued pushing her clients—including Charlize.
Charlize kept auditioning, taking roles big or small, and giving her all on set.
Henry?
He pushed forward the construction of his underwater laboratory, researched alien tech, and continued funding Blade and Abraham Whistler in their vampire-hunting campaign.
Whenever Charlize had time, he dropped everything to be with her.
Whatever remained—
Went to Hollywood social obligations.
Interestingly, as vampires became busier dealing with Blade, invitations to Henry increased again—and became far less… bizarre.
Occasionally, he would remember to guide Stark Pictures' digital imaging development—technically his actual job.
But he remained committed to his personal goal:
Being a paid slacker.
Life was, all things considered, extremely comfortable.
---
That evening, he was debating whether to head underwater again—installing methane collectors, natural gas generators, and helium purification systems—
When a notification popped up on his computer.
A message from Abraham Whistler.
Marked urgent.
No hesitation.
Henry slipped out.
---
Passing by his small office, he saw his secretary—his "black chubby girl"—watering a cactus while eating a donut.
"Yulian."
"Yes, boss." She quickly set things aside and looked up.
Henry almost told her:
Succulents don't need that much water. That cactus is about to die again.
But in the end, he just said:
"I've got something to handle. If anyone asks for me, take a message."
"Got it, boss."
---
In the underground parking lot, Henry grabbed his refurbished off-road bicycle and prepared to leave.
Why a bike?
Not for environmental reasons.
Not for exercise.
Simply because he was being followed more often.
Driving a car had nearly gotten him boxed in multiple times.
Only by slipping through alleyways had he avoided high-speed chases through L.A.
Charlize, needing a car for work, had planned to buy a used one.
Henry just tossed her the keys to his old Cadillac.
Gas money? Her problem.
He, meanwhile, salvaged a bike from a scrapyard, fixed it up, and rode that instead.
This way, when using super speed or flight, he didn't have to abandon a vehicle—he could just carry it.
Mobility improved dramatically.
And since it was a junk bike—
Losing it didn't matter.
For a Kryptonian, vehicles were just props.
---
So now—
He simply hoisted the bike onto his shoulder…
…and walked straight past the surveillance teams.
Right in front of them.
Leaving them with nothing but his back—
And, well—
Not even exhaust fumes.
Bikes don't have those.
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