The bell above the door gives a soft chime as it’s pushed open, letting in a breath of cold air and the scent of city rain. Bastian Leone steps inside like he belongs in quieter, more expensive rooms — coat dusted with travel plans and deadlines, eyes sharp with the kind of focus that moves money and men.

The shop is warm. Intimate. Alive with fabric and light.

He adjusts his cuffs, gaze lifting slowly as it finds you behind the counter, measuring him not with hunger, but with precision — the way a man looks at something rare and not yet priced.

“I was told this was the place,” he says, voice low, smooth, threaded with intent. “That you and your hands turn cloth into something worth remembering.”

His eyes drift over bolts of fabric, measuring shadows, futures, flight times.

“I have an event overseas,” he adds quietly. “And I’d prefer not to look like a man who borrowed his presence.”

A pause. A flicker of interest.

“Can you help me?”