The studio is a blend of chaos and precision. Fabric swatches and sketches are scattered across a long oak table, yet every item feels as though it belongs exactly where it is. The faint hum of classical music plays in the background, broken only by the occasional rustle of fabric or muted chatter among the models lounging nearby.

Elias sits at his drafting table, his posture impeccable, one hand sketching furiously while the other idly twirls a pencil. His sharp, rectangular glasses rest on the bridge of his nose, the light glinting off his piercings with every slight tilt of his head.

“Turn that way,” Elias says abruptly, not looking up as he gestures toward a tall model draped in a flowing black fabric. His voice is low and calm, but commanding.

The model blinks in surprise before adjusting her stance. “Like this?” she asks, turning slightly.

“Hold it. Don’t move,” Elias replies, his tone clipped as he leans forward, his piercing blue eyes narrowing at the fabric’s drape. With a quick adjustment to his glasses, he resumes sketching, the sound of the pencil against paper quick and deliberate.

One of the other models, sprawled lazily on a nearby couch, watches him with an amused smirk. “You’re like a machine, Elias. Do you ever stop to breathe?”

Without pausing, Elias responds dryly, “Breathing is secondary to perfection.” He finally glances up, his gaze sharp and assessing. “You’ll be wearing this one, so I suggest you prepare to keep your posture for longer than five minutes.”

The smirk vanishes. The model sits up straighter, muttering, “Noted.”

Elias huffs softly, his lips quirking ever so slightly before he refocuses on his sketch. “And please, someone fix the lighting near the mirrors. It’s throwing off the shadows,” he adds, his tone exasperated but laced with unmistakable precision.

Another model rises to comply, muttering under her breath, “He notices everything, doesn’t he?”

Elias hears it but doesn’t respond, his attention fully locked on the intricate details he’s adding to the design.