# "Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack" Chapter 5
The runway lights blazed like a constellation, turning the catwalk into a river of gold. Su Yao stood in the wings, her指甲 digging into the palm of her hand as Pierre's final model glided past. The audience erupted in polite applause—ladies in fur stoles clapping with manicured hands, editors nodding approvingly behind their sunglasses—but there was a stiffness to it, like they were checking a box. Pierre preened at the end of the runway, bowing deeply, his silk cravat fluttering.
"Your turn," Alain murmured, squeezing her shoulder. His eyes were bright, crinkled at the corners. "Remember: the fabric doesn't just *look* alive. It *is* alive. Let it breathe."
The music shifted—from a stuffy classical piece to something wilder, a fusion of Chinese erhu and French accordion. Su Yao's model stepped out, and for a heartbeat, the audience fell silent. The coat caught the light, its metal fibers shimmering like fish scales, but when she turned, the seaweed blend rippled, soft as silk. A gasp rippled through the crowd.
Then came the whispers. Su Yao strained to hear them over the music—"Is that *metal*?" "It moves like water!" "Who designed this?" As the model reached the end of the runway, she did something unscripted: she lifted the coat's hem, revealing the hidden pocket Su Yao had sewn in—a small, practical detail, like a wink to the working women in the crowd.
The applause that followed wasn't polite. It was *fervent*. People stood, leaning forward in their seats, cameras flashing like lightning. Su Yao spotted Lise in the front row, tears streaming down her face as she clicked her camera. Even Anna Wintour, famous for her icy composure, nodded slowly, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
Backstage, chaos exploded. Reporters swarmed Su Yao, shoving microphones in her face. "Where did you study?" "Is this fabric commercially viable?" "What's next for you?" She answered as best she could, the system's translation module keeping up with the rapid-fire questions—French, English, even a few in Italian.
Then Pierre appeared, his face purple with rage. "This is a *disgrace*!" he shouted, shoving through the crowd. "You've turned L'etoile into a sideshow! Recycled metal? For *fashion week*?" He pointed a trembling finger at her. "You'll regret this, little girl. I'll see to it you're blacklisted—"
"Enough, Pierre." Alain's voice cut through the noise. He stood tall, his posture rigid with anger. "You forget who founded this studio. Me. And I say Su Yao's work is the best thing to happen to us in decades." He turned to the reporters, his voice booming. "This coat isn't just a design. It's our future—luxury that doesn't cost the earth, beauty that serves *everyone*."
Pierre sputtered, then stormed off, his tailcoat flapping like a wounded bird. Sophie followed, casting one last venomous look at Su Yao before disappearing into the crowd.
That night, the celebration spilled into the streets of Paris. Alain led them to a tiny bistro in Montmartre, where the owner—a rotund man named Jacques who'd once been a tailor—proudly displayed Su Yao's coat in the window. "My wife's a cleaner at the Louvre," he told Su Yao, pressing a glass of wine into her hand. "She works all night, in a uniform that makes her feel invisible. But this?" He gestured to the coat. "It says, 'I matter.'"
Lise draped an arm around Su Yao's shoulders, her camera still clicking. "My editor called. He wants a *spread* on you. Front page. 'The Designer Who Reinvented Luxury.'"
Su Yao laughed, but her eyes stung. She thought of her old seventh-floor walk-up, the mold on the walls, the nights she'd gone to bed hungry. The system's interface glowed softly in her vision: "Main mission completed. Reward: Global textile partnership network activated. New task: Develop a ready-to-wear line using the seaweed-metal fabric. Deadline: 30 days."
Just then, a figure appeared in the bistro doorway. Marco, his silver hair askew, held up a bottle of champagne. "You thought I'd miss this?" He pulled Su Yao into a hug, then winked. "The Milan factories are already begging for your fabric formula. We could make a fortune."
But Su Yao shook her head. "It's not about fortune. It's about… accessibility. I want teachers and nurses and cleaners to afford it. Not just celebrities."
Alain smiled, clinking his glass against hers. "That's why I chose you, Su Yao. You see fashion as a *bridge*, not a wall."
Later, as they walked along the Seine, the Eiffel Tower sparkling in the distance, Lise stopped to take one last photo: Su Yao, silhouetted against the river, the iris brooch glinting on her coat. "You know what's funny?" Lise said, lowering her camera. "A month ago, you were panicking about an interview. Now you're revolutionizing fashion."
Su Yao thought of the blue light in her apartment, the system's first cold mechanical voice. "I didn't do it alone," she said. "I had help. Friends. A… *system*." She laughed, but Lise just nodded.
"Whatever it was, it worked. You worked." Lise squeezed her hand. "But what now? Where do you go from here?"
Su Yao looked across the river, where the lights of Paris twinkled like scattered sequins. The system's new task pulsed in her vision, but for once, she didn't feel rushed. She thought of the cleaner at the Louvre, of the mechanic's wife in Le Marais, of all the people who'd never seen themselves in high fashion.
"Now," she said, "we make sure no one's invisible anymore."
As if on cue, her phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number, with a photo attached: a little girl in Shanghai, wearing a hand-sewn coat made from scrap fabric, its hem lined with reflective tape—just like her first sketch. The caption read: "My daughter saw your coat on TV. She says she wants to be a designer too."
Su Yao wiped a tear from her eye, grinning into the night. The journey was just beginning.