Chapter 73: The Runway Sabotage

The Runway Sabotage

The neon sign outside the Ostello della Gioventù in the Navigli district of Milan buzzed with a sound that could only be described as electrically depressed.

Inside Room 4B, the atmosphere was a dense, suffocating mixture of cheap pine disinfectant, damp plaster, and profound human misery. It was the night before the Versace Fall/Winter showcase—the absolute pinnacle of Milan Fashion Week—and the newly minted executive team of Sovereign Media was currently sleeping on three rusted, squeaking iron cots.

Paul Rudd was lying on his back, staring blankly at a water stain on the ceiling that looked suspiciously like the map of an unmapped, terrifying continent. He had his jacket draped over him because the hostel did not provide blankets.

Owen Wilson was perched on the edge of the adjacent cot, casually inspecting a suspicious, sticky residue on the bottom of his shoe.

"Elias, man," Owen drawled, his voice carrying a slow, mellow cadence that somehow made the depressing surroundings seem even more surreal. "I’m all for, like, rustic, authentic European experiences, you know? But this place smells like someone boiled a wet dog in vinegar. Are you absolutely certain we couldn’t find a hotel? We are technically a global management firm now. I saw you put a check for five grand in your pocket yesterday."

Elias van Kempen sat perfectly upright on his own cot, his back resting against the peeling wallpaper. He was wearing his vintage leather jacket, projecting an aura of aristocratic elegance that aggressively clashed with the squalor of the room.

"A hotel in the center of the fashion district during Milan Fashion Week imposes an ’Event Premium’ markup of approximately three hundred percent," Elias stated smoothly, his baritone voice a dark, unbothered purr. "This hostel room costs thirty dollars a night. I have successfully preserved our operational capital from predatory Italian hospitality inflation."

"We are sharing a bathroom with twelve backpackers who haven’t showered since Munich," Paul whimpered, rubbing his tired eyes. "I saw a guy in the hallway brush his teeth with a twig, Elias. A twig!"

"Capital preservation requires sacrifice, Paul," Elias corrected, reaching into his pocket and carefully counting out the thirty dollars in exact change. "We are in the accumulation phase. Every dollar spent on unnecessary luxury is a dollar we cannot deploy in a hostile takeover. Now, go to sleep. Tomorrow, we must infiltrate the epicenter of the Runway Mafia."

The digital loan shark in his cerebral cortex ruthlessly interrupted his financial lecture.

[CHA-CHING!][SYSTEM WARNING: DAILY MAINTENANCE FEE DEDUCTION INITIATED.][DEDUCTING -$50.00 USD FROM LIQUID CASH RESERVE.]

Elias’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. He felt the mechanical drain on his net worth. The extortionate standby flights, the hostel fee, and the daily tax dropped his liquid cash to a precise $414,330.00. The bleeding never stopped, but tomorrow, he intended to make John Casablancas pay for every lost cent in sheer, public humiliation.

The following morning, the backstage area of the Versace show was a sensory apocalypse.

It was a sprawling, chaotic labyrinth of makeup stations, rolling racks loaded with impossibly vibrant silk shirts, and dozens of assistants screaming at each other in rapid-fire Italian. The air was thick with the suffocating scent of hairspray, expensive perfume, and pure, unfiltered adrenaline.

Elias walked into the maelstrom, completely ignoring the frantic energy. He moved with the slow, predatory grace of a shark gliding through a crowded coral reef. Paul and Owen trailed cautiously behind him, both of them practically vibrating with the nervous energy of two guys who knew they did not belong anywhere near a high-fashion runway.

"Alright, Elias," Paul whispered, adjusting his Anti-Awkwardness Sunglasses, desperately trying to project the image of a seasoned talent manager. "Cindy Crawford’s publicist just confirmed. You are officially slotted as the male showstopper. The final walk before Gianni comes out. Elite Management is furious. They had Marcus Schenkenberg lined up for the spot, and Casablancas practically threw a fit in the production office when he had to pull him."

"Casablancas is a tactical amateur," Elias murmured, stopping in front of a mirror to adjust his collar. "He relied on institutional leverage. I relied on blackmail. Blackmail is mathematically superior."

Before Paul could respond, the crowd of frantic stylists parted like the Red Sea.

Gianni Versace himself strode toward them. The legendary designer was a whirlwind of creative intensity, flanked by two assistants holding a heavy, garment-bag-draped hanger.

"Elias!" Gianni exclaimed, his eyes lighting up with genuine artistic hunger. He didn’t care about agency politics; he only cared about the visual impact. "Bene! You have the perfect, dangerous energy. The exact contrast I need to close the show. Put this on. Quickly!"

The assistants unzipped the bag, revealing the showstopper piece: a sharply tailored, aggressive, double-breasted suit made of a dark, shimmering fabric that seemed to absorb the light, paired with an open-collared silk shirt. It was pure, unfiltered 1990s Italian decadence.

Elias slipped into the suit. The tailoring was flawless. It clung to his 189-centimeter frame, amplifying his raw, street-smart arrogance into an aura of untouchable, high-fashion dominance.

"Magnifico," Gianni breathed, stepping back and nodding approvingly. "You walk right after Cindy. Bring the heat. Make them beg for it."

Gianni hurried off to check on another model, leaving Elias standing near the chaotic staging area.

Elias reached down to slip on the custom, polished black leather dress shoes that had been placed on the floor next to his wardrobe rack.

As he did, his Photographic Memory caught a micro-anomaly in the reflection of a nearby full-length mirror.

Standing about fifteen feet away, partially hidden behind a rack of feathered coats, was a male model. He was a classic, hyper-muscular Golden Boy type—one of Elite Management’s top earners and a known loyalist to John Casablancas. He was currently watching Elias with a smug, intensely malicious smirk.

Elias frowned slightly. He engaged his tactical observation.

He didn’t put the right shoe on. He picked it up and examined the heel.

It was subtle, but to a sociopathic capitalist trained to spot hidden clauses in a contract, the sabotage was glaringly obvious. The thick, rubberized heel of the expensive leather shoe had been precisely and deeply sliced with a razor blade, almost completely detaching it from the sole.

If Elias walked onto the slick, polished runway under the blinding heat of the spotlights, the sheer mechanical stress of his stride would cause the heel to snap off instantly. He would stumble, lose his balance, and face-plant in front of five hundred global fashion photographers. It was a career-ending, humiliating assassination attempt orchestrated by the Elite syndicate.

"Elias, what’s wrong?" Owen asked, noticing Elias staring at the shoe. "Is it the wrong size, man? Because you could totally just walk barefoot. That would be, like, very avant-garde and earthy."

Elias didn’t get angry. He didn’t yell for security. Anger was for victims.

A slow, terrifyingly dark, completely shameless smile spread across his striking face.

"The size is perfect, Owen," Elias murmured smoothly, slipping the damaged shoe back onto the floor, exactly where he had found it. "However, I believe the universe requires a slight logistical adjustment."

Elias glanced at the production clock. They had exactly four minutes before the male models were called to line up for the finale sequence.

Elias didn’t rush. He casually walked over to the rack of feathered coats where the Elite model was standing. The model stiffened slightly as Elias approached, his smug smirk faltering under the heavy, predatory weight of Elias’s gaze.

"Nervous about the finale?" Elias asked, his baritone voice a smooth, silken purr.

"I don’t get nervous, kid," the Elite model scoffed, crossing his muscular arms. "I’m a professional. Just try not to trip over your own feet out there. The runway can be... unpredictable."

"Indeed it can," Elias smiled, offering a polite, chilling nod.

Suddenly, the backstage lights flickered and died. A loud groan erupted from the panicked crew as a circuit breaker tripped, plunging the massive room into temporary, chaotic darkness.

"Hey! Get the backup generators online!" the stage manager screamed in the dark.

In the chaotic fifteen seconds of absolute darkness, Elias van Kempen did not panic. He moved with the blinding, sociopathic efficiency of a man executing a hostile corporate takeover in the dead of night.

He dropped to a crouch, his Photographic Memory mapping the exact spatial coordinates of the room. He slipped off his pristine, un-sabotaged left shoe. He reached out, his long fingers finding the feet of the arrogant Elite model standing next to him.

With shameless speed, Elias violently yanked the model’s left shoe off, ignoring the startled, angry yelp in the dark. He jammed his own perfect shoe onto the model’s foot, and slipped the model’s shoe—which was identically styled, but roughly half a size too large—onto his own foot.

He didn’t bother swapping the right shoe. He only needed the damaged heel, which was currently sitting back at his own wardrobe station, ready to be weaponized.

Elias quickly ghosted back to his designated spot just as the backup generators kicked in, flooding the room with harsh, emergency lighting.

"Alright! Line up! Finale sequence, let’s go!" the stage manager bellowed, clapping his hands.

The Elite model, completely disoriented by the brief blackout and the shoving in the dark, didn’t have time to process the fact that his left shoe felt slightly tighter. He hurriedly scrambled into the lineup line, desperate not to miss his cue.

Elias calmly picked up his right shoe—the one with the deliberately sliced heel. He didn’t put it on.

He walked over to the Elite model, who was standing three spots ahead of him in the queue.

"Excuse me," Elias whispered, tapping the model on the shoulder.

The model spun around, glaring. "What?"

With a movement so smooth and fast it looked like a magic trick, Elias dropped the damaged right shoe on the floor, kicked the model’s actual right shoe out of the way, and gently pushed the sabotaged shoe directly under the model’s descending heel as he shifted his weight.

The model instinctively stepped into it, too focused on the blinding lights of the runway entrance to notice the swap.

"Good luck," Elias smirked, stepping back into his position behind Cindy Crawford.

The heavy bass of a pulsating, aggressive techno track shook the floorboards. The crowd on the other side of the curtain roared.

"Go! Go! Go!" the stage manager yelled.

The models began their march, stepping out onto the blindingly white, polished runway.

The Elite model swaggered out, projecting the aggressive, try-hard muscularity of the 1980s. He hit the center of the catwalk, surrounded by the flashing strobes of hundreds of cameras. He posed, a cocky smile on his face, and pivoted sharply on his right foot to begin his return walk.

SNAP.

The sound of the sliced leather heel shearing off the sole was audible even over the techno music.

The Elite model’s right leg buckled instantly. The catastrophic failure of his center of gravity sent him pitching wildly forward. His arms windmilled in a desperate, comical attempt to regain balance, but the slick surface of the runway offered no mercy.

He went down hard. A pure, unadulterated, slapstick face-plant directly in front of the pit of international fashion photographers.

A collective gasp echoed through the massive venue.

The model scrambled frantically, his face bright red, desperately trying to stand up while missing a heel. He hobbled pathetically off the stage, a ruined, humiliated mess of a man, his career effectively atomized in front of the global press.

Behind the curtain, Paul Rudd let out a horrified squeal. "Oh my god! He fell! He actually fell! Elias, did you see that?!"

Elias didn’t answer. He mentally engaged the loan shark. It was his turn.

[SYSTEM SHOP ACCESSED.][ACTIVATING: GAYA JALAN RUNWAY SEMPURNA (PERFECT RUNWAY STRIDE)][COST: -15 CP][CURRENT BALANCE: 10 CP - WARNING! LOW RESERVES!]

[CHA-CHING!]

The skill flooded his nervous system. His spine locked into an impossibly elegant, dominant alignment. Every muscle in his long, lean frame calibrated to a frequency of pure, untouchable magnetism.

Cindy Crawford stepped off the runway, looking breathless and triumphant.

Elias stepped out.

The flashing strobes illuminated his sharp, striking, exotic face. He didn’t swagger. He didn’t try too hard. He glided down the catwalk with the slow, terrifying, deeply arrogant presence of a billionaire sociopath who had just bought the entire building.

He wore the mismatched shoe—half a size too big—with such absolute, unbothered confidence that it didn’t affect his stride in the slightest. The crowd, still reeling from the humiliating fall of the previous model, was instantly captivated by the lethal, brooding silence of the teenager in the dark suit.

He hit the end of the runway. He didn’t pose. He simply stared directly into the bank of camera lenses, projecting an aura of cold, calculating dominance that made the editors in the front row physically hold their breath.

He owned the room.

He turned and glided back, the sheer perfection of his walk burning itself into the retinas of every designer and agent in Milan.

When he stepped back behind the curtain, the backstage area was in an uproar.

The humiliated Elite model limped fiercely toward Elias, his face purple with rage, holding the broken shoe in his hand.

"Kau menukar sepatuku!" the model screamed, completely losing his mind. (You swapped my shoes!) "Kakiku hampir patah! Kau sengaja mensabotasenya!" (My foot almost broke! You intentionally sabotaged it!)

Elias didn’t flinch. He slowly, methodically unbuttoned his Versace jacket, offering the furious man a smile of profound, shameless condescension.

"Aku hanya melakukan penyesuaian logistik, kawan," Elias replied smoothly, his baritone voice effortlessly commanding the chaotic backstage area. (I merely made a logistical adjustment, friend.) "Sepatumu tampaknya memiliki cacat struktural yang membahayakan aset. Aku menukarnya demi kebaikan fesyen global." (Your shoe apparently possessed a structural defect that endangered the asset. I swapped it for the greater good of global fashion.)

The model looked like he was about to explode. He raised a fist, ready to swing.

Elias stepped infinitesimally closer, his eyes turning into dark, bottomless voids of pure capitalist threat.

"Lain kali," Elias whispered, a deadly, chilling smile on his lips. (Next time,) "Gunakan lem yang lebih kuat jika kau ingin bermain-main dengan gravitasi." (Use stronger glue if you want to play with gravity.)

The model froze. He looked at Elias’s dead eyes, realized he had been completely outplayed by a sixteen-year-old sociopath, and backed away, swallowing hard.

Elias turned back to Paul and Owen.

"The syndicate has been publicly humiliated," Elias announced, slipping his vintage leather jacket back over his arm. "The runway is secured. Now, we return to Los Angeles. I refuse to pay for another night in that toxic hostel."

Deep in his mind, the system rang out its quiet, inevitable toll.