The grand hotel on Paris's Left Bank glowed under the evening lights, its marble floors reflecting the refined attire of the guests. The air carried the scent of champagne and perfume, interwoven with the soft murmur of conversations. MAGRIS stepped inside, dressed in a tailored black suit—his posture relaxed, yet with an unmistakable edge.
This annual industry gala gathered the world's top hairstylists, makeup artists, and brand executives. He wasn't nervous, but he understood that this was more than a social event; it was a crossroads where connections and opportunities converged. His gaze swept across the crowd, already calculating how best to navigate the night.
"You seem calmer than I expected."
A familiar voice came from behind him. Turning around, he saw a woman in a deep red gown approaching. The fabric traced her elegant figure, her makeup refined but understated. DELP.
MAGRIS smiled slightly. "After enough corporate galas back home, you start to recognize the same patterns, just in different places."
DELP's lips curved subtly as she studied him for a moment before motioning for him to follow. They moved through the crowd to a small discussion circle where industry professionals were engaged in casual conversation about market trends. Standing beside DELP, MAGRIS didn't rush to speak. He observed, listening for valuable insights.
"What's your take on this?" someone suddenly asked him.
His tone remained steady. "Trends evolve, but the core remains unchanged. For a brand to dominate the market, it must find the balance between tradition and innovation."
A brief pause. The person raised an eyebrow, intrigued by his response, then nodded and continued the discussion. MAGRIS allowed himself a small, unreadable smile. He had caught their interest—not by force, but naturally.
As the conversation carried on, DELP leaned in and murmured, "You're adapting faster than I expected."
MAGRIS met her gaze, calm and unwavering. "Maybe it's just an illusion."
She studied him for a second longer before saying nothing more.
The night deepened, and the gala wound down. Stepping outside the hotel, MAGRIS lit a cigarette, his fingers pressing lightly against it. The Parisian breeze whispered past him as he exhaled a slow stream of smoke.
A faint smile played at his lips.
This was only the beginning.