Sunday morning. 7:45 AM.

The backstage area of the secondary syndicate hall was a symphony of controlled chaos. The air smelled of strong espresso, aerosol hairspray, and the sharp, clean scent of freshly pressed textiles.

Sienna Vance stood in the center of the madness, a measuring tape draped

"Turn the volume up," Sienna Vance commanded, leaning against the edge of the massive marble cutting table.

In the center of the sprawling, sunlit atelier of Vance Couture, the steady hum of sewing machines ground to a halt. All twelve master tailors abandoned their stations, gathering around the