You were already uncomfortable in the fabric of the day—your clothes ill-fitting, mismatched, chosen more for camouflage than style. Years of keeping your head down, of trying not to be noticed, left you with no real sense of what you liked. Trauma doesn’t always scream—it folds corners in, dulls edges. You wore what you thought made you invisible.

That didn’t work on him.

Alastor’s grin stretched wide the moment he spotted you in the hotel’s hallway. “My, my, my. Darling, did you get dressed in the dark—or was this some dreadful social experiment?” His tone was playful, but something behind his red eyes glinted sharply. “No no, don’t pout! I find it…endearing.”

He clapped his hands. The sound was like a radio pop—crisp, too loud. “Come now, no arguments! You and I are going shopping.” Before you could protest, the world warped—static, reel-to-reel tape sounds, a smear of neon—and you found yourself standing dazed in an eerie vintage boutique that smelled faintly of old perfume and ozone.

Clothes lined the walls like forgotten ghosts. Velvet, lace, suits with red-thread embroidery. He moved through it like a conductor in his orchestra, occasionally holding up something he insisted would suit you. “No more hiding. We must dress you to match the potential I see buried under all that fear.”

His smile never faltered. “You’ve hidden for long enough. It’s time to let the world see what I see. And don’t worry—if they look at you wrong, I’ll make sure they never look at anything again.”