The reviews were glowing.
That's how she knew someone was going to die.
The Vogue Tribunal had called her last show "a rebirth of fashion warfare." The Council Gazette called it "a necessary disruption." And Critique Noir, the anonymous review column known for its lethal takedowns, gave her the rare "Blood-Stitch Approval."
Three hours later, one of her designers was dead.
---
He was found backstage, draped in his own unfinished look — a jacket made of programmable feathers — his heart pierced by a crystal sewing needle.
The note on his chest was written on haute-couture receipt paper:
> "One stitch unraveled. Seven remain. The season begins."
— The Seam Ripper
Sloane read it three times, ice forming behind her ribs.
Cassien stood behind her. "This isn't just sabotage."
"It's performance art," she said grimly.
"The Council?"
"Or worse. Someone freelance."
---
In the following days, whispers of fashion critics turned assassins began to spread.
They were called the Seasonals — elite operatives who infiltrated shows, exhibitions, and fittings as buyers and reviewers. But their words killed reputations, and their hands ended lives.
Ari tapped into their network. "They use aliases: Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter. Each one specializes in a different type of kill."
"Winter's the worst," Cassien added. "He never misses. And no one's ever seen his face."
Sloane looked down at the list of her next event's VIP guests.
Four names. Four anonymous critics. All with seasonal codewords embedded in their invitations.
"They're coming to the show," she said. "All of them."
---
The Event: Widow's Thread
The show was set inside an abandoned wedding cathedral, with veils stitched from liquefied lace, gowns that changed colors with breath, and a soundtrack composed of heartbeats from grieving widows.
But it wasn't a show.
It was a trap.
Sloane had weaponized her models — each look laced with defense tech and signature motion-triggered glyphs. Every seat had been rewired. The lighting was calibrated to disorient anyone without biometric clearance.
And in the VIP box, four assassins watched.
Their critiques would be delivered in blood.
---
Spring attacked first — during intermission — with poisoned perfume sprayed from a limited-edition compact. The model next to her collapsed mid-pose, foaming silver at the mouth.
Ari took her down with a swatch of magnetic ribbon wrapped around the assassin's throat.
Summer tried next — hacking the show's LED runway into a strobe field of seizure-inducing patterns.
Sloane overrode the program, using her gloves to reroute the power and flood the floor with blinding white. Cassien tackled the woman before she could inject Sloane with a poison needle hidden in her press badge.
Autumn struck during the finale walk — a cascade of exploding brooches embedded in her fake journalist kit. The blast knocked out the outer tier, but Sloane's reinforced bodice absorbed the shrapnel.
Autumn didn't live long enough to fire a second shot.
---
But Winter never attacked.
He simply stood.
Watching.
A man dressed entirely in white wool. Face masked. Hands gloved. Silent.
As the final model exited, he walked down the runway, slowly, deliberately, and handed Sloane a letter.
Then he turned and left.
Cassien moved to follow.
"No," Sloane said.
She opened the letter.
Inside was a single embroidered thread. Black. Fine. Cold.
And a sentence:
> "You interest me. For now, I watch. But the Season will turn."
---
Back at the compound, the mood was frayed. Two designers had been injured. One dead. Security was locked down tighter than ever. Every coat, hat, and heel had to be cleared twice.
Sloane sat alone in the archive, reading Winter's note again.
"What does it mean?" Ari asked softly.
"It means they're not done."
"And we?"
"We're not either."
She traced the black thread.
"He thinks I'm worth watching."
Cassien entered, bruised, silent. He knelt beside her chair, his hand on hers.
"You don't have to keep going," he said.
"Yes, I do."
"Why?"
"Because someone has to teach them," she said. "That fashion isn't a weapon they get to control."
She leaned down, kissed him softly.
"You still with me?"
His eyes met hers. "Until my final stitch."
---
In the Council chambers...
Dorian read the report with growing irritation.
Three assassins dead. One vanished. And Sloane had grown more infamous, more beloved, more invincible.
"You're losing control of the narrative," a voice said behind him.
He turned. Alecta, the Council's archivist, stepped forward.
"Send the Inkwrights," she said. "Let's rewrite her story."
Dorian smiled.
"She wants war through couture?"
He folded the report.
"We'll give her an epic."