Berlin was freezing. Proper freezing. The kind of cold that makes even the most committed fashion person question their footwear choices. Day four of Fashion Week. Editors slightly dazed. Guests layered in wool and caffeine. Everyone carrying a little bit of visual overload.

Intervention, curated by Reference Studios, has built a reputation for attracting a crowd that treats fashion as culture, not background noise. Subculture meets luxury. Cross-pollination, as Mumi Haiati once framed it. By its fifth edition, the showcase feels established. International. Confident. And still, the room needed something. DAGGER delivered it. Before the first look even hit the runway, the atmosphere shifted. The soundtrack landed heavy and immediate. Heads lifted. Feet started tapping without permission. That low hum of fatigue disappeared.

Then came the shirtless angel. Bare chest. Wings. Casual beer crack. He sat on a stone like it was the most natural thing in the world. It wasn’t ironic. It wasn’t trying to be shocking. It was funny in the most self-assured way. The room laughed. People leaned forward. You could feel it: we’re in this now. Luke Rainey, founder of DAGGER, wasn’t presenting a concept. He was opening a door.

We spoke with Luke Rainey about growing up in Portrush, skate culture as a form of survival, and the space between where you come from and where you are going.

How did this collection come together?

Before I started this collection, I knew I wanted to tell my story from the beginning. I wanted to show the people, places, and clothing that inspired DAGGER. I took inspiration from the town I grew up in, Portrush.

How have your youth and roots influenced your creations at DAGGER?

My youth and roots in skate culture are DAGGER. My brand is heavily based on my teenage years during the early 2000s growing up in a pretty rough environment in the north of Ireland. Skate was everything to us. It was a vehicle out of there. It gave us hope.

Are there elements that run like a common thread throughout the collection?

For sure. One of my favorites is the MACBETH graphic pieces. Macbeth was the first play that I ever read at school and actually understood. From there, I got into drama for a while, which sparked my creativity and is probably why I am here speaking to you today.
Color-wise, you see a lot of pink, red, and blue. I wanted to use these somewhat primary colors to suggest teenage optimism about a future different from the current reality.

This marks your runway debut at Berlin Fashion Week. What is your mantra, and what do you hope guests take away from the show?

My mantra for everything I do with DAGGER is “if you want to be exceptional, you have to do exceptional things.” I hope I achieved that with this debut show. The main thing I want guests to take away is the message of hope. No matter who you are or where you come from, you can have a better future in whatever that may look like to you.

What does the idea of a “vacuum” mean to you in the context of your work?

To me, the “vacuum” is that space between where you come from and where you’re trying to go — the in-between period where you’re not fully one thing or the other yet. Growing up, I often felt like I was stuck in that kind of emptiness: rough surroundings, limited opportunities, and a sense that the future wasn’t guaranteed. But that vacuum is also where everything gets created.

Portrush wasn’t referenced through nostalgia. It showed up in attitude. In silhouettes that felt slightly oversized, slightly defiant. In layered hoodies, washed denim, sharp tailoring that still carried a skater’s ease. The early 2000s energy wasn’t styled as costume. It felt lived-in.

The MACBETH graphics cut through the collection like inside jokes shared with the audience. Shakespeare filtered through teenage rebellion. School text turned subcultural code. There was something disarming about it. Earnest. A little dramatic in the best way. Colour worked hard. Pink. Red. Blue. Not pastel. Not muted. Direct. The kind of palette that belongs to youth when the future still feels editable. On heavy knits and structured coats, those tones carried optimism without softening the edge. You could see the collaborations woven in naturally. Vans grounding the looks with a skate-ready solidity. Eastpak bags slung across bodies like they’d survived ten bus rides and a gig. Rogue Note adding its detail quietly into the mix. None of it felt like sponsorship. It felt like community.

What made the show hit was not just the clothes. It was the embodiment. The cast understood the brief. There was a looseness in their walk. A sense of ownership. No over-choreographed severity. No blank runway faces. They looked like people who had somewhere to be after this. Somewhere better. The energy stayed high. The soundtrack built momentum instead of flattening it. By the final look, the room wasn’t just attentive. It was smiling. And that matters.

After days of structured shows and careful concepts, DAGGER felt alive. The kind of show that reminds you why runway still has power when it connects emotionally. It didn’t feel like a brand trying to impress Berlin. It felt like Berlin meeting Luke halfway.

There is a sincerity at the core of DAGGER that refuses to perform coolness. It assumes it. That confidence comes from lived experience. Skate culture as an escape route. Theatre class as an awakening. Portrush as origin story. All of it feeds into a label that speaks about possibility without sounding naive. The idea of the vacuum, that suspended space between past and future, landed clearly. The clothes exist right there. Not polished into finality. Not stuck in memory. Charged with movement.

If you want to be exceptional, you have to do exceptional things.

On a freezing Berlin afternoon, Luke Rainey did.

And for a room that thought it had already seen everything, that was enough to make them feel sixteen again.