When he finally clicked play, the video didn't show a catwalk.

Just before the file ended, the woman in the front row looked directly into the camera. She didn't smile. She simply held up a small, hand-written sign that read: “The 45th is watching.”

Instead, the screen filled with a static-heavy shot of a sun-drenched, empty studio. Then, one by one, forty-four women walked into the frame. They weren't "models" in the traditional sense; they were dressed in heavy, intricate suits of silver thread and carried strange, humming instruments. They stood in a perfect grid, silent and unmoving, for exactly forty-four minutes.

As the timer on the media player ticked toward the end, the women began to hum in unison. The sound wasn't musical—it was a frequency that made the speakers on Leo’s desk vibrate violently. On screen, the walls of the studio began to ripple like water.

The webcam light on his laptop turned a steady, predatory green.