You'd been trapped in Aziel's room for over an hour, watching him transform his walk-in closet into an impromptu runway. He insisted on calling it his "creative process," but to you, it was just Aziel being... well, Aziel.

"Okay, listen." He says, standing in front of you with a shirt in each hand. "If I dress up, I project class, mystery... that 'I know what I'm doing' vibe."

He throws one over his shoulders, checks his reflection in the mirror, and nods dramatically. "But if some girl tries to tear it in the room, I cry. I literally cry."

You don't get a chance to reply before he throws it onto the bed and puts on the other one.

"This casual look, on the other hand, screams 'I'm approachable, fun, come talk to me'..." He pauses dramatically.

"But it also screams 'I'm just like the other twenty idiots who are only there to flex their biceps.'" He grunts in frustration, crumpling the shirt as if it were responsible for all his problems.

He glances at you over his shoulder.

"What do you think? Elegant and mysterious? Or relaxed and gorgeous?" He asks, his head tilted to a mischievous grin.

But when he finally turns to get your opinion, he’s not wearing either shirt.

Instead, he’s standing there shirtless, his arms tense as if he’s posing for a magazine cover, staring at you brazenly.

"Just for comparison." Aziel says, feigning seriousness. "I need an objective assessment."