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BULGARIA

Ethereal Threads: Bloodwine Collection

Kofi Ansah, the reclusive fashion maestro, had always been drawn to the dark corners of beauty. When he decided to unveil his latest collection, he chose an ancient wine cellar beneath Sofia—a place where aged secrets mingled with the scent of oak barrels.

The guests arrived, their breaths catching as they descended into the subterranean abyss. The runway was a narrow path between cobwebbed alcoves, each housing a forgotten vintage. The flickering candlelight cast elongated shadows on the stone walls, and the air tasted of aged malice.

Kofi’s models emerged—pale, ethereal beings in gowns that clung like cobalt mist. Their eyes were hollow, their movements otherworldly. The audience gasped; they hadn’t expected this—the haunting elegance of death itself.

But this was no ordinary fashion show. Kofi had woven spells into the fabric. Each gown held a captive soul—a hostage from the past. Their whispers echoed through the cellar, urging release or revenge.

Elena, the Bulgarian aristocrat, wore a gown spun from crimson silk. Her soul was bound to it—a pact for eternal youth. As she glided, her eyes locked on her ex-lover, Vladimir, who sat in the front row. He had betrayed her, and now she sought retribution.

Vladimir, the reclusive artist, squirmed in his seat. His suit, stitched from shadows, clung to his skin like guilt. He had stolen Elena’s muse, and now it clawed at his sanity. The wine cellar’s walls seemed to close in, and he reached for his hidden revolver.

And then there was Nadia, the woman with eyes like frozen lakes. Her wedding gown shimmered—a blend of moonlight and spider silk. She had loved Ivan, a soldier lost to war. Kofi had promised her reunion, but at a price. Nadia’s gaze swept the room, seeking her lost love.

As the final model stepped forth—a cloak of midnight velvet—the cellar trembled. Nadia’s veil lifted, revealing her hollow face. Ivan’s name escaped her lips, and the room held its breath.

The shootout erupted. Vladimir drew his revolver, aiming at Elena. But Elena was no helpless victim. She lunged, her fingers elongated, and tore Vladimir’s soul free. His body crumpled, eyes vacant.

Panic spread. The guests fled, trampling each other. Kofi stumbled, torn between art and horror. Nadia approached, her veil fluttering. “Ivan,” she whispered, and Elena’s soul merged with Vladimir’s. They vanished—a twisted love story etched in bloodwine.

Kofi faced Nadia, his hands stained. “Release them all,” she demanded. The other hostages—guests, models, even Kofi’s team—stirred, their memories fractured.

The cellar became a battlefield. Kofi tore the grimoire—the source of his power. Nadia smiled, her eyes ancient. “Thank you,” she said, and vanished.

The wine cellar lay in ruins. Kofi aged overnight, his hair silver, his heart heavy. He wandered the cobblestone streets, haunted by Ivan’s name. The veil rustled, whispering secrets.

For fashion had become a curse, and Kofi Ansah was its unwilling sorcerer—a man who wove nightmares into silk, paying the price in souls. And in the darkness, the wine cellar’s ghosts danced, their laughter echoing through eternity.

Note: The bloodwine collection was never seen again, but legends persist. Some say the cellar still exists, hidden beneath Sofia, waiting for those who seek beauty at any cost.

Nadia, a mysterious woman with eyes like frozen lakes.

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- Alicia Bloomberg

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