No grand unveiling. No messiah in monogrammed loafers descending from the heavens to rescue Gucci from its latest existential wobble. Just another show, another placeholder, another polite nod to the fact that yes, fashion marches on, even when it’s leaderless. It’s been exactly a decade since Alessandro Michele was plucked from relative obscurity, tasked with salvaging a collection in five days flat, and in the process, rewrote the house’s entire trajectory. Sabato De Sarno? He barely had time to unpack before being unceremoniously escorted out. And for a fleeting moment, the industry held its breath—would we see another eleventh-hour savior? A seismic shift? A moment?