The runway preparations reached a fever pitch. Graham stood at the center of controlled chaos, his earpiece buzzing with last-minute adjustments. The prototype-inspired designs seemed to pulse with an energy that only a few could truly perceive.
Isabella's translucent form flickered between the clothing racks, visible only to Mishka and her family. She was mapping something—tracing invisible lines that matched the venue's underlying network nodes.
"Five minutes to first walk-through," Graham announced, his professional demeanor masking the undercurrent of tension.
Myrtle positioned herself near the backstage entrance, her sword hidden but humming with a frequency that made the air feel charged. Shaun monitored the security feeds, while the containment team maintained a careful perimeter.
Mishka's mother's recording pulsed warmly in her pocket.
"The convergence is starting," Myrtle whispered. "Not forced. Guided."