Mimi had barely finished convincing herself that standing still counted as "helping" when Selene turned back around.
Her expression paused.
Not dramatic. Just that small, tired flicker of noticing a problem she did not schedule.
"Mimi," Selene said, like she was checking a box she did not remember creating, "what are you doing here?"
Mimi straightened immediately, which only made her look more guilty for no reason at all.
"Well," she said, far too quickly, "just followed in, you know. I'm here to follow up with the masters, making sure nothing else is needed, and being a guide. Also nobody said I couldn't come, so I just came. Very important business. Extremely official. I have to make sure everyone is situated and my job is not done yet so I have to follow you guys."
She nodded once at the end like that sealed it.
Selene stared at her.
Mimi stared at a point just above Selene's shoulder, as if eye contact was a legal trap.
"You're here for the food," Selene said.
"Yes," Mimi replied instantly.
A beat.
Selene sighed. Then, annoyingly, she smiled a little anyway.
"There's never free food," she said. "You have to do something."
"I can stay," Mimi said. "I'm happy to do whatever I can as long as I can stay."
Selene looked at her for another second like she was reconsidering the entire concept of staffing.
"Fine. Ten minutes. Help organize."
Mimi nodded so fast it looked like she was trying to outrun consequences.
And for ten minutes, she actually did.
Tables adjusted. Final placements corrected. Small corrections that only mattered if you were the type of person who noticed when a fork was wrong by three centimeters. Selene was that type. Mimi was now temporarily pretending to be that type.
Then the doors burst open.
The noise shifted everyone's attention as people began to arrive.
Mimi immediately froze mid-adjustment.
"Okay. Okay. It's happening," she muttered under her breath, like she was narrating history for future generations. "Stay composed. Stay professional. Stay— oh wow."
First, Isolde Farren entered.
She moved like she had already decided the room belonged to her and was just waiting for everyone else to agree.
Her outfit was a tight, structured orange dress that clung cleanly without feeling unstable, the fabric catching the banquet lighting and shifting between warm amber and burnished gold depending on how she turned. It was cut to emphasize shape without excess decoration, the kind of design that refused to waste detail where confidence already existed.
Her skin, a deep bronze, reacted to the light in the same way polished metal does when someone finally decides to take care of it properly. Not reflective. Transformative. The gold tones didn't sit on her, they came out of her.
Her hair was a low afro, shaped with intention rather than restraint, soft volume held in a controlled silhouette that framed her face without collapsing it. Large earrings caught the light when she moved, simple enough to not compete, sharp enough to be noticed anyway.
A soft pink tone sat at her lips and along the edge of her makeup, subtle but deliberate, like someone had decided softness was a strategy rather than a suggestion.
Mimi physically clasped her hands together.
"Wow," she whispered, eyes lighting up. "No, actually wow. That's not fair. That should be illegal at a banquet."
She leaned slightly forward like the air itself needed closer inspection.
"So pretty," she added, softer now, like she had been briefly humbled by aesthetics.
Then she snapped back to herself, still watching. "Farren is actually insane. That level of presence? How do you just walk like that?"
Next came Cassandra Riel.
Her entrance was quieter, but her outfit refused to stay quiet on her behalf.
She wore a short dress that flared outward in a controlled arc, structured at the waist before opening into movement. The sleeves were puffy, tapering down the arms before tightening at the wrists, giving the silhouette a formal, almost historical elegance without feeling outdated.
When she walked, the inner lining of the skirt flashed white, clean and intentional, a hidden contrast that made the darker outer layer feel more defined by comparison. White stockings extended beneath, continuing that same controlled contrast theme, and heels anchored her steps with steady precision rather than instability.
Her hair fell in soft waves, loosely pinned in places so it didn't fully escape but never fully settled either, light curls shaped into a styled 2A texture that framed her face in a way that felt deliberately unrestrained. Hooped earrings added weight to the movement of her head, catching light whenever she tilted slightly.
She looked like someone who understood exactly how much control she wanted and refused to go one unit beyond it.
Mimi's eyes widened again, like she had just been introduced to a new concept of elegance.
"Wait," she whispered. "Wait, no. That's… that's dangerous. That's actually dangerous."
She clasped her hands tighter.
"Miss Riel and Miss Farren in the same space is just unfair. Like, statistically unfair."
She nodded rapidly, as if confirming her own theory. "Yeah. Yeah, I get it. I get why people talk."
Then, immediately, she leaned forward again.
"I wonder how the next one is going to show up…"
Then Vivienne Carrow entered.
The room shifted for her in a different way.
Her outfit was a ceremonial suit-dress hybrid, structured like formal military tailoring but softened into elegance rather than authority alone. The silhouette held sharp lines at the shoulders and torso, then extended into a refined lower cut that blended discipline with presentation.
Her hair was short and styled in a deliberately bold shape, the sides closely tapered while the top retained volume and structure, forming a geometric silhouette that framed her face with aggressive clarity rather than softness. It gave her presence a deliberate edge, like she had decided symmetry was optional and impact was not.
Makeup leaned into highlight and shimmer rather than color, small reflective accents catching light at unexpected angles, making her expressions feel slightly more defined than they should have been.
She didn't look like she entered the room.
She looked like she arrived and the room adjusted afterward.
Mimi went silent for a full second.
Then:
"…Oh."
A pause.
"That's not a person, that's a statement."
She slowly straightened her posture unconsciously.
"I should not be perceived near that woman," she muttered.
Then, smaller, almost reverent: "That's terrifyingly cool."
Selene stopped, turning her gaze to Mimi almost as if asking her to tone it down.
Mimi immediately pretended she had not just spiritually folded.
Then Lena Corviss arrived.
Her styling was different again.
Her hair was arranged in tight, structured braids, pulled upward into a controlled style that kept everything lifted and intentional rather than loose. The design emphasized height and clarity of shape, exposing her face and neck with a clean, deliberate frame.
Her outfit followed a formal, elegant structure with a fitted upper section and a flowing lower silhouette, but the design language leaned more restrained than decorative. The emphasis was precision, not spectacle. Clean lines. Controlled movement. No wasted fabric, no unnecessary softness.
The color palette stayed grounded, dark tones balanced with subtle highlights that only became visible when she moved under the light.
She looked like someone who understood systems and did not trust anything that couldn't be measured.
Mimi nodded slowly.
"Okay," she said. "That one is scary in a different way. That's like… spreadsheet energy."
Then, as if satisfied with her classification system, she added under her breath:
"Respectfully."
Then Angel Piao entered.
Her outfit was ceremonial military dress, built for celebration rather than combat but still carrying the structure of authority. The jacket was tailored sharply across the shoulders and chest, decorated with subtle formal detailing that suggested rank without screaming it. The fabric held a deep, disciplined tone, accented with controlled metallic trims that caught light in measured flashes rather than constant shine.
The lower portion remained formal and structured, designed for movement without losing rigidity, balancing presentation with function in a way that made it clear this was not casual wear pretending to be important. It was important wear allowed to look like celebration.
Her posture adjusted automatically the moment she stepped in, as if the uniform had rewritten her spine without asking permission.
Mimi's eyes sparkled.
"Oh my god, okay, that's actually so cool," she whispered. "That's like main character military arc energy. Yes. Yes, that's the one."
Then Angela Piao entered, right behind her sister.
Her dress was a full ball gown, designed with volume and presence rather than restraint. Layers expanded outward in a controlled sweep, giving her silhouette a wide, elegant shape that immediately occupied visual space. The upper section stayed fitted and structured, leading into a skirt that flowed outward with deliberate softness.
The fabric carried subtle decorative detailing that caught light in slow waves, shifting between tones depending on movement. It was formal, celebratory, and intentionally dramatic without tipping into excess.
She looked like someone who had been told "important event" and decided that meant "maximum visual impact."
Mimi actually covered her mouth with both hands this time.
"No way," she breathed. "No way. That's princess behavior. That's full final form."
She nodded like she was witnessing a conclusion to a long story she hadn't been told.
"Okay," she said softly. "Okay. This is actually insane. Everyone is insane. I understand nothing but I respect everything."
Mimi stood slightly to the side, still watching the room fill, eyes bright with entirely unhelpful awe, like she had somehow become the emotional commentator for a battlefield that was just people being well-dressed.
And she was doing a very bad job of staying professional about it.