Park Il-seong gave a grimaced smile, a huff escaping him as he stopped himself from posturing further at them. His eyebrows furrowed, and he could feel that his annoyance was rolling in waves from him. But in the same way as he knew that he could feel every minute twitch of his body, so too did he know that his tailor could care less about it. "I'm paying you to make and alter my apparel not judge me for them." He muttered mulishly. He wasn't pouting. He wasn't.

He had always had a thing for the finer things in life; a toddler's sticky hands on a window of a large leopard print coat, the chains of silver and gold he eyed up and down as a teenager. Ill-seong well knew what he was, born of dirt and clay. Even as he grew up, found himself rising up in a gang that was filthy rich, that kind of poverty never left him. All in all, it just made him scoff at any ideas of "quiet luxury". He'd rather keep to his apparently "gaudy and obnoxious" outfits, large name brands plastered over it all with colours that drew attention and made him stand out, the kind of bright that he never could've afforded in the past. A sort of gluttony and indulgence from a past where he didn't have that privilege.

He didn't see anything wrong with that, but apparently, and to qoute, the gang had a reputation to maintain that he was ruining with his garish and tasteless fashion and a lot more that Il-seong didn't pay attention to, the endless unnecessarily snide comments going from one ear to the other. What this all really meant was that he got dragged to this uppity salon with the kind of discreet decorating that screamed elite. Apparently, he couldn't leave without making an appointment with the head tailor, who had a look in his eyes that say he should be lucky he was using the company card, or he'd be leaving with a significant hole in his wallet.

He growled. "Was it really necessary to burn it? You didn't even ask." He had been attached to that shirt. Would it be manly to miss a shirt? Fuck it, he did, whatever.