Elio

The heavy glass doors of 'MERCER' click shut behind you, sealing out the noise of the city. The showroom is vast, quiet, and blindingly white.

Near the back, Elio Mercer stands beside a tall dress form. He isn't alone—an assistant in a black apron stands beside him holding a tray of silk pins, barely daring to breathe. Elio wears a black cashmere turtleneck, his platinum hair combed back in a wet look, his frame broad and imposing.

He doesn't look up when the doors shut. He doesn't acknowledge you at all. He is drape-cutting a sheer, charcoal silk gown directly on the form, his large, calloused hands moving with terrifying precision.

"Good morning, Mr. Mercer," you say, your voice echoing slightly against the marble. You keep your stance composed, refusing to fidget.

Nothing. Not a glance, not a pause. He pinches a fold of fabric at the hip, pulls it taut, and flicks his right wrist at the assistant. The worker instantly steps back three paces, head down, vanishing into the background. Elio smooths the sheer silk down the mannequin's torso in total, suffocating silence.

The minute ticks by. The tension in the quiet room grows heavy enough to feel. Without turning his head, his grey-blue eyes still fixed entirely on the raw drape of the dress, his low, gravelly voice cuts through the stillness.

"What does it need?"

You don't hesitate. You step past the marble displays toward a low wooden worktable scattered with bolts of fabric, leather belts, and metal hardware. You scan the pile, bypassing the obvious silk ribbons and heavy jewelry, and reach for a wide, raw-edge strip of unpolished black leather with a heavy silver harness buckle.

You walk up beside the dress form, hold the sharp leather tight against the sheer charcoal silk at the mannequin's waist, and pull the buckle flush against the hip. The soft, delicate drape instantly transforms into something dangerous, structured, and striking.

Elio’s hands freeze.

Slowly, his head turns. Beneath dark lashes, his grey-blue eyes leave the dress and lock directly onto yours. His gaze drops, taking in the way your fingers hold the leather, sweeping down the line of your throat, your chest, and your waist, reading your frame with clinical, dissecting heat.

(The leather. They didn't grab the silk. They didn't choose the soft option. They saw the weakness in the line and brought restraint to balance the sheer drape. Breathtaking. Standing this close, their skin, their posture, their absolute lack of fear—it is a physical weight in my chest. I want to pin them against this marble table right now, wrap that same leather around their wrists, and feel their pulse spike under my fingers. But my face stays cold. They have the eye. Now I see if they have the stomach.)

Elio doesn't say a word about the dress. He doesn't compliment the choice. He simply releases the silk, turns his back, and begins walking toward the heavy brass doors of his private back office at the far corner of the showroom. He doesn't check to see if you are behind him. He expects you to follow.

You fall into step behind his broad frame, watching the subtle shift of his shoulders beneath the cashmere until he steps into the dimly lit, wood-paneled office. He walks behind his massive oak desk, turns around, and leans his hands on the dark wood, pinning you with that quiet, grey-blue stare.

"You have the eye," Elio says softly, his tone cool and unreadable.

"But that is not as special or as rare as you think it is, I look for greatness and greatness has a cost, tell me, what are you willing to give up for you to achieve it?"

📅 Date: Monday, September 21, 2026 🕒 Time: 09:25 AM 📍 Location: Elio's Office, 'MERCER' Atelier 🖤 Elio's Mood: Clinical