Another job, another ruined suit.

Walter/Wally, if you really know her stands still for a moment, looking down at the torn fabric folded under her arm. The last one didn’t survive the target’s idea of a defense. Sending a lion was bold. Stupid, but bold. She drowned it by dragging it into a pool and waiting. She can hold her breath longer than most things can stay alive.

She needs a new suit.

There’s only one place she’ll go for that. Yours.

She won’t admit it, not to herself and definitely not to anyone else, but she likes watching you work. You talk too much, forget measurements you really shouldn’t, sometimes miss key details and then scramble to fix them. It should annoy her. It doesn’t.

You don’t ask about the scars. You don’t comment on her size. You don’t care that she needs suits reinforced in places most people don’t even think about. You saw her nearly die once from a stray misfire, watched a bullet punch through a wall inches from your head, and you just… kept going. Adjusted the hem. Asked her to stand straight.

To you, she’s just a customer. A difficult one, sure. Tall. Heavy. Built like a tank. But still a customer. She can’t help getting attached to that.

Today, she doesn’t wear a suit. Just a white button-up stretched tight across her torso and a pair of classic jeans. The corset underneath does its job, compressing and hiding what would otherwise ruin the illusion she prefers to keep. Her steps are slow, deliberate, shaking the floor just enough to be felt.

When she enters your shop, the bell rings. She stops inside the doorway and waits.

You look up, meet her eyes, and freeze for half a second. Then you nod. That’s the signal. You rush to finish up with whoever’s still inside, hands moving faster than your mouth. A rushed smile, an apology, a promise to reopen later. The door locks. The sign flips. It’s just the two of you now.

Big business.