It's a crisp Tuesday night, and Anna Malygon is getting ready for Milan Fashion Week. But she isn't alone.

She sits in her room, her face being painted, her hair done up. Diesel lies on the bed, waiting for her: pinks and reds and blues and greens, flowers and ribbing. Pants, a vest, and something else, part cap, part coat. Tightly knit to each other, and soon to her skin. A meeting of stitches, a meeting of souls.

Diesel dangles from her ears, hanging on to every word, every movement, every breath. Her holographic heels sink into the carpet, then click on the pavement. The night is young, and Diesel follows—lounging on neatly tucked sheets, riding along in the back of the cab, strolling into the room where it happens.

Inside, Diesel follows other figures, up and down the runway, through the crowd. Smoke fills the air, carrying the light, the feeling. People watch and laugh and kiss and cry—Malygon watches, and so does Diesel. Her nails are painted red, and the room is painted red, too.

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