# "Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack" Chapter 2
The digital clock on the wall flickered to 3:17 a.m. Su Yao sat cross-legged on the floor, carefully piecing together shards of a mirror she'd fished out of the trash bin. The jagged edges cut her thumb, leaving a tiny crimson bead that dripped onto a sketch of a sanitation worker's windbreaker—staining the paper where she'd drawn the hidden tool pocket. She sucked the blood off her finger and pressed the largest shard against the wall, angling it to catch the dim glow of her phone's flashlight.
On the screen, L'etoile's recruitment page glared like a neon sign. "Required: Paris College of Art alumni or equivalent," "Minimum 3 years' experience at luxury fashion houses," "Fluency in French with mastery of industry terminology." Su Yao traced the words with a calloused fingertip—her hands bore the marks of part-time jobs: dishwashing scars on her knuckles, fabric burns on her palms, a permanent indentation from the restaurant's credit card machine.
A mechanical chime sliced through the silence: "45 hours and 17 minutes remaining."
She nearly knocked over her chipped ceramic mug. The last dregs of instant coffee had left a brown ring around the rim, which now caught her eye—reminding her of the Italian woman from three months ago. The elderly signora had pressed a business card into Su Yao's hand after she'd helped argue with a fabric vendor who'd shortchanged her. "For when you need help," the woman had said in broken Mandarin. Su Yao dug under her mattress and pulled out the card: "Marco Botti, Milan Fabric Association驻华代表 (China Representative)"—the gold lettering was slightly smudged, but the phone number was still legible.
Her hands shook as she dialed. After three rings, a sleepy voice answered in rapid Italian. Su Yao's throat went dry—she'd forgotten most of the phrases she'd crammed for the college entrance exam. Just as she fumbled for her translation app, the system's voice activated: "Language module engaged. Real-time translation active."
"Is this Mr. Botti?" Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "I'm the girl who helped your mother at Qipu Road Market. About the fabric vendor? I wonder if you could advise me on European textile standards."
There was a pause, then the voice switched to accented but fluent Mandarin: "Ah! The brave ragazza who stood up to that crook! Mamma talks about you often. Can you meet me at 10 a.m. at the Nanjing West Road Fabric Expo? I'll bring samples—my treat."
Su Yao hung up, her palms clammy. She reached for her sketchbook, its pages swollen from being caught in last night's rain. Page 37 held her most cherished design: a windbreaker with reinforced elbow patches, hidden pockets sized for gloves and trash grabbers, reflective strips woven into star patterns. She'd sketched it while蹲点 (squatting and observing) at a garbage transfer station, watching workers struggle with ill-fitting raincoats. "They deserve clothes that work as hard as they do," she'd written in the margin.
"Feasibility assessment: 91% match with current sustainable fashion trends," the system intoned.
Su Yao startled. The virtual screen had materialized in the corner of her vision, displaying a glowing bar chart. She'd almost gotten used to the system's intrusions—though it still felt like living inside a video game.
At 6 a.m., the sound of mewling roused her. Three stray kittens huddled under the fire escape, their mother pacing anxiously. Su Yao broke off pieces of her steamed bun and set them on a paper plate. As she watched the cats eat, a familiar figure appeared at the stairwell: Lise, the French exchange student from downstairs, carrying a camera and a paper bag.
"Look what I brought!" The blonde girl held up a crisp white shirt. "My sister wore this when she assisted Karl Lagerfeld! It's vintage now, but perfect for interviews." Lise's blue eyes scanned the room, landing on the sketchbook. She flipped to the sanitation worker design and gasped. "Alain's been ranting about needing 'clothes with soul'—something that bridges luxury and real life. This is it!" She leaned in conspiratorially. "But watch out for Sophie, the studio's head assistant. She's Pierre's niece—thinks Asians steal 'their' spotlight."
The Fabric Expo was a sensory overload: bolts of silk in every shade of the rainbow, the sharp tang of dye, vendors calling out prices in Mandarin, Cantonese, English, Korean. Marco, a portly man with silver-streaked hair and a pocket square that matched his tie, greeted Su Yao with a double cheek kiss. "Mamma made me promise to help you," he said, leading her to a booth displaying metallic silver fabric. "Our new recycled metal fiber—but it's too brittle for Paris Fashion Week."
Su Yao ran her fingers over the material. It was cool to the touch, with a subtle sheen like moonlight on water. Suddenly, the system hummed: "Fabric identification skill activated. Composition: 87% recycled aluminum, 13% polyester. Defect: excessive zinc content causing brittleness. Solution: integrate 3% seaweed-derived fiber for flexibility."
She blurted out the suggestion before she could stop herself. Marco's eyes widened. "That's what our lab spent three months trying to figure out! How—"
"Just a hunch," Su Yao said, heat rising to her cheeks.
When they arrived at L'etoile Studio, a sleek glass building with the logo—a stylized iris—etched into the facade, Sophie was manning the reception desk. The woman's red lipstick matched her stiletto heels, and her打量 (appraisal) of Su Yao's outfit—Lise's borrowed shirt, thrifted slacks, scuffed shoes—was openly disdainful. "Mr. Alain is busy," she said, flicking a manicured nail at Su Yao's fabric samples. "Internships are for graduates, not... self-taught hobbyists."
As she spoke, the glass doors slid open. Alain Dubois himself strode out—silver-haired, with a scarf draped artfully around his neck, speaking rapid French into a phone. When he spotted Marco, he ended the call with a laugh. "My old friend! And who is this?" His eyes, the color of the Mediterranean, fixed on Su Yao.
Before she could speak, Sophie interjected: "A hopeful, Monsieur. But without proper credentials—"
Alain held up a hand. "Credentials are for bankers, Sophie. Show me what you have, mademoiselle."
Su Yao's hands shook as she presented her sketches. When Alain reached the sanitation worker windbreaker, he let out a low whistle. "This... this has *coeur* (heart). Tell me about it."
Su Yao explained, her words gaining confidence as she described the workers' needs. "Fashion shouldn't just be for those who can afford it," she said. "It should protect, serve, honor."
Alain's smile broadened. "Finally! Someone who understands. The world doesn't need another sequined gown. It needs *meaning*." He turned to Sophie. "Prepare the contract. We start Monday."
Sophie's mouth dropped open. "But—"
"*Mais non* (But no)," Alain said firmly. "Talent doesn't need a diploma, only vision."
As they left, Pierre Dubois—Alain's younger brother, with the same sharp features but none of the warmth—stepped out of the elevator. His gaze lingered on Su Yao's shirt. "Chanel, 2015 collection. My niece owns the same one." He smirked. "Cute that you're playing dress-up, but remember—Orientals make excellent assistants. Designers? Not so much."
Su Yao's grip on her samples tightened until her knuckles whitened. Before she could reply, the system chimed: "Main mission completed. Rewards: Language module (French/Italian) installed. Fabric identification skill unlocked. New mission: Improve recycled metal fiber's elasticity within one week. Difficulty: Medium."
Outside, sunlight glinted off the studio's glass walls. Lise, who'd been waiting on a bench, jumped up and hugged her. "I knew it! Let's celebrate—my treat!"
As they walked toward the subway, Su Yao glanced at her reflection in a store window: Lise's shirt, slightly loose on her frame, the fabric samples tucked under her arm, a new light in her eyes. The girl who'd slept on a cot in a seven-floor walk-up, worrying about rent, was gone—replaced by someone who dared to dream in a language she was only just learning.
The system's countdown had reset: 167 hours, 59 minutes, 42 seconds. But this time, Su Yao smiled. Bring it on.