I reached for the hem of my shirt and pulled it off.
The fabric resisted slightly, sticking to dried blood along my chest before peeling away.
I dropped it without care.
Then the trousers.
Discarded.
The new suit waited.
Perfect. Untouched.
Midnight-black wool, tailored with precision sharp enough to cut through perception itself.
Milan craftsmanship.
I stepped into the trousers first.
The silk lining brushed against my skin, cool and clean, a stark contrast to the heat still lingering beneath it.
The shirt came next. Crisp white cotton.
Each button fastened slowly.
Then the waistcoat.
Then the jacket.
Each layer building something different.
Finally, the shoes.
Black leather. Polished to a mirror shine.
I slipped them on, adjusting them with quiet precision.
Then the tie. Black silk.
Smooth beneath my fingers.
I looped it once.
Twice.
I was still adjusting the knot.
Fingers working the silk with slow, deliberate precision—tightening, centering, perfecting.
Then—
Chaos.
It hit the door like a break in formation.
Boots scraping violently against stone. A sharp, muffled curse. The sound of struggle—brief, contained—but enough.
My body reacted before my mind did.
