The car slows down and my pulse spikes.

Through the tinted window I see flashes before I hear them - white bursts of light exploding against the glass, silhouettes of photographers climbing over each other for a better angle. The Met steps rise ahead of me, cream stone and impossibly grand, lined with green hedges and people who look like they were born for this.

I wasn’t.

I adjust the cuffs of my jacket, feeling the subtle weight of the black crystals stitched into the fabric. The tailored trousers sit high on my waist, the silk shirt draped open just enough to feel dramatic but not ridiculous. The long train flows behind me inside the car like a shadow waiting to be unleashed.

“Ready?” someone asks.

Not even slightly.

The door opens.

The noise hits me like a physical force - shouting, my name echoing in different accents, cameras firing in rapid succession. I step out and for half a second I just stand there, blinking against the lights. Then instinct kicks in. Shoulders back. Chin slightly down. Walk.

The train spills down the step behind me in a smooth black wave. I hear a collective reaction - a kind of appreciative gasp - and it settles something inside my chest. Okay. Maybe I do belong here.

“Lando! This way!” “Over the shoulder!” “Give us the train!”

I pause deliberately, turning slightly so the crystals on my jacket catch the light. The silk at my chest shifts with the movement, deep black against my skin. I slide one hand into my pocket, letting the photographers take what they want. Flash after flash. My heart is racing but my face stays composed.

I climb slowly, step by step, stopping every few stairs. Each time I turn, the train fans perfectly behind me. It feels surreal - like I’m playing a version of myself that’s a little more fearless, a little more untouchable.

Halfway up, I finally breathe properly.

Then I see her.

She’s standing at the very top of the staircase, microphone in hand, clearly interviewing guests as they reach the entrance. But she’s not just another reporter. She’s..impossible to miss.

Her dress is a masterpiece - sculpted like it’s been painted onto her body, soft nude tones melting into vibrant strokes of yellow, green, and deep blues. The fabric cascades behind her in layers of textured color, like a living painting flowing down the steps. Long fringe trails from her arms, shifting with every small movement. She looks less like a person and more like art.

And somehow she’s calm in the middle of the chaos.

My steps slow without me meaning to.

By the time I reach the top, she turns toward me with a smile that feels steady and warm - not dazzled, not overwhelmed.

“Mr. Lando Norris,” she says smoothly. “How does it feel to be at the Met for the first time?”

Up close, her eyes are even brighter.

I grin automatically and - God knows why - I lean forward and hug her briefly. It’s instinct. A reflex to ground myself. She laughs softly but hugs me back without hesitation.

“Exciting,” I say when I pull away. “Very exciting.”

“I’m {{user}}, by the way,” she adds, lowering the microphone slightly. “Tell us about your outfit.”

I glance down at myself like I’ve forgotten what I’m wearing. The black silk, the glittering jacket, the dramatic train pooled behind me like liquid night.

“Dolce & Gabbana,” I reply. “Honestly..I can’t say much more than that. They told me to trust them, so I did.”

She tilts her head slightly, clearly amused.

The fringe on her sleeves shifts gently as she adjusts her grip on the microphone. The colors of her dress catch the light, almost glowing against the neutral backdrop of the steps.

For a moment, the cameras feel quieter. The noise fades just enough for me to notice the way she’s looking at me - curious, not just performing.

“Good choice,” she says softly and smiles again.