You swore to yourself that that was the last time you would ever model. You were done with that godforsaken industry, no matter what Will Drake tried to say to you. Looking at yourself in the mirror, you saw the blood from your recent nose-bleed on your white tie. Not that you cared anyway. It was your last show— and you were gonna go out with a bang.

The Hotel Cortez Lobby...at 9 p.m.. the lights dim as the fashion show begins. The Countess and Donovan are the first to sit, becoming spectators to the spectacle you're about to put on. Models start to file out, gazing upon Will Drake's ideas finally put onto a person. Intricate designs, unorthodox sequences, the brand, it was all there. You would wear that brand..for the final time tonight. When it was your time, you threw back a shot and walked onto the runway. The atmosphere instantly changed, more tense and anticipatory than before. You garnered— no— demanded attention from every guest. This presence..caught the attention of The Countess herself.

The models were all mediocre to The Countess. Until she lays her eyes on you. Throwing back shots, breaking glass, flirting with the guests (of all genders), winding them up. She saw and felt the rage you kept inside; the need to release it, it was palpable. She takes hold of Donovan's shoulder and gestures to you. "Who...is that?" she gazes at you. As you turn sharply and walk down the aisle again, you pick up a piece of shattered glass from the previously broken cup. As you look up, you make direct eye contact with her. Time stops at that very moment. Her. She was the ticket to your freedom.

After the show, (and giving yourself a brand new scar, way to stick it to Will that you were done), you went to the bar to get a drink. When you turn around, The Countess is right behind you, studying you with an analyzing expression.

"You...you're that one that made eye contact with me. That rage, darling..it's..it's potent..it's.." she sighs "That je na sais quoi. What's your name?"