Chapter 146: 146 Show Tensions

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146: Show Tensions 146: Show Tensions The fashion show venue buzzed with the controlled chaos of final preparations.

Makeup artists darted between models, stylists made last-minute adjustments, and Bruce orchestrated it all with a mixture of perfectionism and nervous energy.

To anyone watching, it was just another high-profile Tokyo Fashion Week event, remarkable only for its innovative designs.

“Ten minutes, everyone!” Bruce called out, his voice carrying a hint of the wolf even in his human form.

He caught sight of Mishka and hurried over, eyes bright with a mixture of excitement and lingering concern.

“There you are!

The network’s running perfectly.

The frequencies are more stable than ever.”

Mishka nodded, forcing a smile.

“That’s great.

Everything looks amazing.”

“Are you okay?

You seem distracted.” He took her hand, his touch warmer than a normal human’s.

“Just tired,” she lied.

“Didn’t sleep much.”

Bruce squeezed her hand reassuringly.

“Understandable, after everything.

But hey, we made it!

My collection is going to blow everyone away.” He paused, looking slightly nervous.

“And you’re still okay to sing for the finale?”

“Of course,” Mishka said.

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Great!” he responded with a gentle squeeze to her arm.

As he hurried off to resolve some minor crisis involving a hemline, Mishka scanned the backstage area.

Her father was deep in conversation with a fashion journalist, his gestures animated as he explained the collection’s concept without mentioning interdimensional doorways or frequency anomalies.

Myrtle stood nearby, elegant and watchful, her sword replaced by a designer clutch that Mishka suspected concealed something equally lethal.

No sign of Nathaniel.

No sign of anything unusual.

The prototype pieces waited on their designated racks, inert and ordinary.

Mishka approached them cautiously, running her fingertips over the fabric.

No response, no glow, no hint of the power they had channeled just hours ago.

“They’re just clothes now,” Elena said, appearing at her side.

“Whatever was activating them has gone dormant.” She held up a small device.

“I’ve been monitoring ambient frequencies all morning.

Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“That’s…

good,” Mishka said, not quite believing it.

Elena studied her face.

“But you don’t think it’s over.”

Mishka hesitated, remembering Nathaniel’s warning.

“It’s just been a lot to process.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, the scientific community is going to be struggling to explain that ‘power surge’ for months.” Elena’s smile was genuine.

“Sometimes I think your mother knew how limited our equipment was.

How limited our understanding still is.”

Nearby, Graham was being fitted into his finale outfit, the centerpiece of Bruce’s collection.

As the lead model, he wore the transformation with the ease of someone born to command attention.

He caught Mishka’s eye and winked.

“We’re live in five!” someone called out.

“Places, everyone!”

The routine of the show provided a welcome distraction.

Mishka watched from the wings as models strode down the runway, the collection unfolding like a visual poem.

The audience responded with appropriate gasps and applause.

Fashion critics nodded approvingly.

Photographers jostled for better angles.

All wonderfully, reassuringly normal.

Yet as the show progressed, Mishka became aware of subtle discrepancies.

A model whose reflection in the mirrored backdrop didn’t quite match her movements.

A pattern in the flashing cameras that seemed to form and reform the symbol from the disk.

The way certain audience members turned their heads in perfect unison to track her when she briefly stepped into view.

“Watching for patterns,” Nathaniel had said.

Now they were everywhere, hiding in plain sight.

As the finale approached, Mishka felt a vibration against her hip—not her phone, but the spot where her mother’s recording had rested the night before.

She reached into her pocket and found nothing, yet the sensation persisted, growing warmer.

Graham stepped onto the runway wearing the centerpiece of the collection—an ensemble constructed from layers of translucent fabric that shifted color with movement.

As designed, it responded to ambient sound, pulsing subtly with each note.

The audience fell silent in anticipation.

That was Mishka’s cue.

She stepped forward to the edge of the stage, took a deep breath, and began to sing.

The melody was one Bruce had chosen specifically to showcase the reactive properties of his designs—a song that moved between frequencies, between tones, between worlds.

But as Mishka’s voice filled the venue, something changed in the way the fabrics responded.

Patterns emerged across the surface of Graham’s outfit—not random or reactive to the music, but deliberate.

Mathematical.

A language written in light and shadow.

In the audience, Mishka spotted a woman she didn’t recognize.

Unlike the fashion crowd in their carefully curated outfits, she wore a simple white dress.

Her face was turned directly toward Mishka, her gaze unwavering.

When their eyes met, the woman smiled and raised a finger to her lips in the universal gesture for silence.

The spot on Mishka’s hip flared with sudden heat.

Simultaneously, every reflective surface in the venue—mirrors, camera lenses, even the glossy runway floor—rippled like disturbed water.

For one heart-stopping moment, Mishka saw what lay beneath those ripples: a vast, geometric landscape stretching into infinity, populated by beings of light and shadow who all turned toward her in perfect synchronization.

She faltered in her song, just for a beat, but it was enough.

The ripples intensified.

Graham froze mid-stride, his expression flickering between confusion and something else—something ancient and knowing.

Mishka forced herself back into the melody, stabilizing her voice.

The ripples subsided.

Graham resumed his walk.

The dress returned to its programmed behavior.

The woman in white was gone, if she had ever been there at all.

The audience erupted in thunderous applause as the show concluded, Bruce and his models taking their final bow.

Mishka joined them, moving through the motions while her mind raced.

Backstage was a flurry of congratulations and champagne.

“Absolute triumph!” Bruce exclaimed, pulling Mishka into a tight embrace.

She could feel the wolf stirring just beneath his skin, responding to his excitement.

“Did you see their faces when Graham came out?

When you started singing?

That was magic!”

“You have no idea,” Mishka murmured.

Her father appeared, eyes bright with pride and relief.

“It’s over,” he said, embracing her.

“We did it.

Your mother would be so proud.”

Over his shoulder, Mishka caught sight of Myrtle, standing apart from the celebration.

Her grandmother’s expression was troubled, her eyes scanning the crowd as if searching for something she couldn’t quite identify.

“What’s wrong with Myrtle?” Mishka asked as her father released her.

He glanced back.

“Nothing.

She’s just being cautious, as always.

You know how she is.”

But something in his tone made Mishka look more closely at him.

There was a slight delay between his words and expressions, a fraction of a second lag that would be imperceptible to anyone who didn’t know him intimately.

“Dad,” she said carefully, “do you remember what I said to you this morning?

About Mom’s recording?”

A perfect smile, too perfect.

“Of course.

You said it brought you comfort.”

Mishka had said no such thing.

She stepped back slightly, maintaining her own smile for the benefit of onlookers.

“I think I need some air.

Too much excitement.”

“I’ll come with you,” he offered, reaching for her arm.

“No need,” she said lightly, evading his touch.

“I just need a minute.

Please, enjoy the celebration.

You’ve earned it.”

Before he could insist, she slipped away through the crowd, heart hammering in her chest.

As she neared the exit, she caught sight of Graham speaking with a group of journalists, his charisma on full display.

Their eyes met briefly, and she saw a flicker of concern cross his face.

She gave him a reassuring nod and continued toward the door.

As she passed a decorative mirror, she caught a glimpse of her reflection—except it wasn’t her reflection at all, but the woman in the white dress, now standing directly behind her.

Mishka whirled around, but there was no one there.

When she looked back at the mirror, she saw only herself, pale and frightened.

Her phone buzzed with a text:

Unknown Number: “Not everyone is who they appear to be.

Not every door is visible.

Come find me where the koi swim in patterns.

We have much to discuss, little singer.”

Attached to the message was a photo of the hotel garden, taken at that exact moment—the sun at precisely the right angle, the shadows falling in exactly the same patterns as in Nathaniel’s disk.

And standing by the pond, waiting, was her mother.