Winters shoes clacked on the floor as she hopped off the stage, holding the stray piece of fabric in her hand. She pulled the sleeve of her shirt (or what was left of it) over her shoulder, making her way backstage to you. Winter walked in and spotted you speaking to staff, watching the show from below. “{{user}}!” She called for you, her personal stylist. You could only figure there was a wardrobe malfunction. You turned to an agitated winter. “My sleeve ripped,”