Zoey had barely shut her eyes, her head lolling gently to the side like a tired diva taking a break from her spotlight, when a light knock rapped at the door. She jerked slightly, still half-asleep, rubbing her eyes as she shuffled over.
Opening the door, she found Dre standing there, slightly breathless and with that boyish excitement in his eyes.
"Yo," he said, tilting his head. "The list is out. They're announcing it in the main auditorium. Thought you might wanna know."
Zoey blinked, suddenly wide awake. "Shit… now?" she muttered, then immediately composed herself, straightening up and flipping her hair dramatically. "Thanks, boo. Lemme grab my gloss."
---
By the time Zoey and Dre reached the auditorium, the rest of the reps were already seated—faces painted with a mix of nerves, hope, and forced poise. The room felt thick with anticipation, the kind you could slice through with a butter knife.
Pleasantries were exchanged, murmured greetings across the rows, subtle glances thrown—some shady, some merely curious. Then, as if summoned by the tension itself, the ever-wise Master of Ceremonies stepped up to the platform with all the elegance of a royal scribe.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, his voice crisp, smooth, and just dramatic enough. "Congratulations on making it this far. But as you know, only six companies will make it to Thursday's final showcase."
A pin-drop silence spread across the room like a lace veil.
He unfolded the golden sheet like it was the Holy Grail and began:
"In 6th place… Xiami Group of Companies."
"5th… Kalad Foods."
"4th… Kandys."
Zoey turned to glance at Dre with a quick smile and a whisper, "Safe, darling."
"3rd… McKrapper Foods Company."
She straightened her back proudly. McKrapper may have been an underdog, but they were biting hard.
"2nd… Onyix Pelix Edibles."
"And 1st… Sanchez Premier Foodz."
A subtle ripple of applause flowed through the crowd, though the tension stayed cemented in everyone's gut.
Then came the cold knife—"The four other companies have been evicted. You have until tomorrow evening to pack and leave the IPR house."
There was a collective breath. Reps from the eliminated companies whispered, some with resignation, others clenching jaws and faking smiles. It was the business version of a reality TV elimination, polished, brutal, and final.
Wednesday came like a gust of wind laced with deadlines. All the finalists were assigned to project rooms, and shortly after, the doors swung open to reveal their designated fashion designers. The new challenge was simple in theory but intense in execution: Create a runway outfit using your company's product packaging. And by Thursday, explain how the design promoted recycling and environmental innovation.
Each rep stood like a makeshift muse, surrounded by fabrics, product wrappers, boxes, plastics, labels, and raw ambition. The room buzzed like a hive.
Zoey worked with her designer—an eccentric, quick-talking man named Jhowhelle, who spoke in dramatic exclamations like, "No, no! This curve must hug your waist like a scandal!" and "I don't want you to wear McKrapper; I want you to be McKrapper!"
They spent the day wrapping boxes, twisting foil, and cutting open ketchup sachets to form avant-garde sleeves.
By evening, the energy in the air had shifted. The eliminated reps, bags packed, came down to say their goodbyes. Hugs were exchanged ,some genuine, others more for optics. Serena De-Aguas stayed mostly quiet, offering no dramatic goodbyes.
Outside, Zoey sat near the fountain with Dre, legs crossed, sipping on a chilled soda.
"I'm gonna miss some of them," he said, shrugging. "But also… not really."
Zoey chuckled. "You're awful."
"I'm honest."
There was a pause. Dre glanced sideways at her.
"You nervous about tomorrow?"
Zoey leaned back, eyes fixed on the moon. "A little. But not because of the dress. It's Serena. She hasn't said a word to anyone since Monday. She's too calm."
"Scary calm."
"Exactly."
Thursday arrived like a pageant queen late to her own coronation.
Everyone was up early, running around with their designers, doing final fittings, applying makeup, glueing on last-minute rhinestones and pleats made out of foil and wrappers. Jhowhelle nearly fainted when Zoey accidentally stepped on a sleeve mid-runthrough.
By 3 PM, the house auditorium had been transformed. A sleek runway had been laid out with side seating, flashing lights, and cameras set to broadcast the final fashion segment across regional TV and social media platforms.
The MC appeared again in a silver blazer that screamed "drama," and the show began.
"Welcome to the Eco-Fashion Challenge—where innovation meets glamour!"
The audience clapped as the first model, Ms. Shangai of Xiami, strutted onto the runway. Her outfit was a flowing kimono-like robe made of biodegradable rice-paper wrappers. She bowed gracefully and stepped off.
Next came Kalad Foods, donning a dress made entirely of dried banana leaf packs and plastic spoon ruffles.
Then Dre. He rocked a two-piece covered in glittery wrappers and sauce-label chains that clinked like charms. He winked mid-walk, earning giggles from the audience.
Zoey entered next.
The lights dimmed, a soft red glow filled the stage as she walked in majestic. Her dress sparkled with ketchup sachet accents, layered with gold-tinted fry boxes. The bodice was crafted from clear dipping sauce lids molded into flowers. Her hair was swept up, a burger box crown sitting effortlessly atop. She stopped at the center, posed like a sculpture, then slowly turned with that signature walk—bold, confident, and bathed in intention.
Next came Lars from Onyix—his look was clean, futuristic, with noodle wraps woven into a trench-coat aesthetic.
And finally… Serena. The room silenced as she walked in like a fallen angel. Her gown was dark, edgy, made entirely of black packaging material from Sanchez Premier Foodz. The dress glistened like oil. Her model expression remained cold, her walk hypnotic.
The Head of Fashion took the stage afterward.
"We applaud the innovation, creativity, and sustainability efforts shown today," he said, then motioned for the reps to join their designers on stage.
Each representative explained their piece: the materials used, how they avoided waste, and what their message was.
Then came a twist—peer critique.
They were all given a mic and asked to constructively assess another rep's outfit. Most gave polite, reserved feedback, avoiding confrontation like it was a cursed wine glass.
Then Zoey raised her hand.
Everyone turned.
Even the MC blinked.
She took the mic, cleared her throat with a queen's poise, and said, "I'd like to say something about Serena De-Aguas's dress."
A collective gasp filled the auditorium. Someone's water bottle dropped.
It was bold. It was unexpected. And it was Serena.
Zoey continued, "Serena, you mentioned that your product's packaging sublimes when burnt. That's impressive and may aid waste control—but isn't the emission a form of nicotine gas?"
Dead. Silence.
People began nodding. Some murmured. No claps. No defense. Serena simply stared, lips frozen, eyes unblinking. She wasn't allowed to speak. Critique etiquette rules forbade it. You take the blow, gracefully, or not at all.
The MC intervened. "Thank you, Zoey, for your observations. All feedback noted."
They all walked backstage in single file, the energy thick with unspoken tension. Serena passed Zoey slowly but said nothing. Her gaze could've burned through glass.
The showcase had ended.
Now, all that remained was Friday's debate—and then Monday's final result. The title of IPR Champion was within reach, but the battlefield was no longer just creativity. It was strategy, sharpness, and a little fire.
And Zoey?
She came with all three.