"Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack" Chapter 11
The launch of the "Umoja" collection in New York's Meatpacking District felt less like a fashion show and more like a global celebration. The venue, a converted warehouse with exposed brick walls, was draped in swathes of the collaborative fabric—Maasai reds clashing beautifully with Italian golds, Chinese jade greens weaving through it all like a river. Models of every age, ethnicity, and body type milled backstage, laughing as they helped each other into garments that told stories: a jacket lined with photos of Nala's village, a dress stitched with Giovanni's childhood sketches, a scarf bearing the handprints of Maria's kindergarten class in Milan.
Lise, now the fashion editor of a groundbreaking new magazine, darted between them with her camera, pausing to snap a photo of an 18-year-old Somali refugee named Aisha, who'd been hired as a seamstress after attending the "Threads Without Borders" school in Brera. "This is what fashion should look like," she said, showing Su Yao the image—Aisha grinning, her hands still holding a needle and thread, the "Umoja" logo stitched onto her sleeve.
The front row was a riot of familiar faces: Madame Laurent from Kering, nodding approvingly; the Greenpeace activist, now a board member of their initiative; even Anna Wintour, wearing a "Umoja" scarf in her signature bob. But the seats of honor belonged to the artisans—Nala in a beaded headdress, Giovanni in a tweed jacket he'd woven himself, Maria clutching a small loom like a trophy.
When the lights dimmed, the music started—a fusion of Maasai ngoma drums, Chinese erhu, and Italian opera. The first model emerged in the lion-motif cloak, its metal threads catching the light so vividly it looked like the beast was moving across the fabric. The audience erupted, but fell silent when the next model appeared: a 72-year-old retired teacher from Shanghai, wearing a coat made from recycled seaweed fibers, her posture as regal as any supermodel's.
Su Yao stood backstage, tears in her eyes, as Elena squeezed her hand. "Look at them," Elena said, nodding at the audience. "They're not just watching clothes. They're watching possibility."
After the show, chaos reigned. A CNN reporter asked Nala how it felt to see her designs on an international runway. "It feels like home," she said, through the system's translation. "Because home isn't a place. It's the people who carry your stories."
Giovanni, surrounded by young designers begging for advice, laughed when someone called him a visionary. "I was a stubborn old man," he said, clapping Su Yao on the back. "This one—" he nodded at her, "—taught me to see beyond my loom."
That night, they celebrated on the rooftop of a nearby hotel, the Manhattan skyline glittering around them. Marco had flown in with a barrel of his family's homemade limoncello, which he insisted was "the official drink of revolutions." Nala taught them Maasai toast songs, their voices rising and falling in harmony with the city's hum.
Su Yao stepped away for a moment, leaning against the railing. Her phone buzzed with a message from her mother: "Your father and I saw the show online. We're so proud. The little girl from Shanghai did good." Attached was a photo of her parents standing in front of their tiny apartment, wearing "Umoja" scarves—gifts she'd sent them last month.
The system's interface flickered to life one last time, displaying a single message: "Primary mission complete. Host has redefined fashion's boundaries through cross-cultural collaboration. Legacy secured." Then it faded, leaving only a soft glow that vanished like a shooting star.
Elena joined her, holding two glasses of limoncello. "You look like you've seen a ghost," she said, grinning.
"Just saying goodbye to an old friend," Su Yao said, smiling.
They clinked glasses, the sound echoing into the night. Below them, the city pulsed with life—people from every corner of the world, walking the streets, wearing stories stitched into fabric, carrying pieces of each other wherever they went.
Su Yao thought of all the threads that had brought them here: a blue light in a Shanghai apartment, a rainy night in Paris, a campfire in the Maasai Mara. They were all part of something bigger now—a tapestry that stretched across continents, woven not just with fabric, but with trust, courage, and the unshakable belief that together, we're stronger.
As the first light of dawn touched the sky, Su Yao took a sip of limoncello, its citrus tang sharp and sweet on her tongue. The future was unwritten, but she didn't mind. They'd weave it together—one stitch at a time.