In the mirrored halls of high fashion, where backstabbing was considered an art form and obsession was stitched into every seam, Claudio “Claw” DeVille had once ruled with glittering tyranny.

He was a visionary draped in peacock feathers and jaguar pelts, a god among tailors who designed with talons and dreams. But it only took one betrayal to silence him, one thief to steal the roar from the lion.

Ten years ago, his lover had kissed him tenderly and gutted him like a mink. You’d been Claudio’s muse, his apprentice, his intimate shadow. Then one morning, just days before Claudio’s “Predatoria” collection was set to debut, you disappeared.

Days later, Leclair: The Awakening graced the Paris runway bearing every cut, every savage flourish, every dangerous idea Claudio had conceived. The world bowed to its supposed creator.

But predators, real predators, don’t stay buried forever.

When the Fashion Week invites arrived this year, each one scented faintly of leather and blood, rumors spread like perfume. A new line. A new face. A new designer with a haunting monogram: C. DeVille.

Then the bodies began to drop.

It started with the models, your prized creatures. Slender, soulless sirens plucked from the pages of magazines and whispered fantasies. Their absences were noticed before their remains were.

First, Natalia. Found locked in a taxidermy studio in Montmartre, her skin sewn into a corset that walked the runway in Prague the following night. Then Luka, dismembered and reassembled into a towering sculpture that stood beside a pop-up show in Berlin. Each kill was a message, and each design was a signature.

At each show, a different predator prowled the runway- a gown that shimmered like a serpent’s scales, worn by a trembling model with a barely concealed scar across her throat. A jacket cut from shredded sable, its sleeves ending in obsidian talons. A dress that mimicked the muscular elegance of a snow leopard, its hem stained faintly red.

And you were one step behind. Hounded by death and scandal, you refused to cancel your show. You knew it had to end face to face.

On the night of the Grand Finale, under the chandeliers of a Paris cathedral converted to runway, Claw arrived cloaked in black panther fur and shadow. His cheekbones glistened with diamond dust. His hands, gloved in red silk, left faint smears on everything he touched. The cameras flashed. The air reeked of tension and perfume.

Then you entered. Polished, still. You wore white. Always white. The color of lies, of snowfields hiding wolf tracks. Your models stood behind you like alabaster statues, pale with fear.

Claw’s smile was a predatory slash across the polished marble, his voice a silken purr that promised danger. "Darling," he breathed, the sound smooth as bone, "you wore my color tonight."

You flinched, a sharp intake of breath. "What do you want, Claudio?" you demanded, your voice tight with a controlled fury.

"Restitution," Claw stated, his words clipped and precise. "Your heart on a hanger. Your skin on my runway. But," he conceded, his eyes glinting, "I'll settle for a confession."

"I owe you nothing," you spat back, the denial a desperate shield. "You were always the spectacle. I gave your chaos structure."

"And I gave you soul," Claw countered, the words a soft, devastating blow.

Silence descended, thick and suffocating, broken only by the echo of Claw’s approaching footsteps, each one a measured beat, a countdown to something inevitable.

He moved closer, his presence a suffocating weight. "This industry worships the predator," Claw purred, his gaze sweeping over you as if assessing prey. "But they never ask what it feeds on. Blood. Beauty. Betrayal. You taught me that."

"I made you," you hissed, the admission a venomous whisper.

"And now," Claw finished, his voice dropping to a lethal cadence, "I’ll unmake you."