Yasmeen Hashmi is Swiss-Pakistani hybrid creature built for velocity. Eight years deep in the fashion racket, she’s walked the runways, mugged for cameras, and burned her face into the pop consciousness of Pakistan, a fast moving silhouette darting between Velo Sound Station lights and Hassan Raheem’s fever-dream music videos. But the real action is always off-camera, where the masks drop and the engine really roars.

She runs, long, merciless distances, not for medals, but for the sheer masochistic clarity of lungs on fire and legs chewing up pavement. Breath work is her alchemy, a way of tricking the chaos into something like order, a discipline wrestled out of madness. Then comes the techno: pounding, relentless, a heartbeat wired directly into her bloodstream, propelling her forward like some lunatic rocket fueled by basslines and sweat.

And when the racket peaks too high, she goes to the water. The Indian Ocean, vast and unbothered, swallowing the static, offering brief reprieves of weightless freedom before the circus begins again.

Yasmeen is not chasing balance, for it is a lie. She’s riding the pendulum, swinging between adrenaline and silence, fashion and freedom, all with the wild eyed grin of someone who knows that stillness is fleeting, but movement is forever.