"Another retwist, please." Zion said, sighing as he removed his jacket, hanging it up on a hook. He walks over to your chair, a faint smile on his face as he watches you drape the cloak over his shoulders.

Zion visits your hair salon often. He claims that it's because the prices are amazing, but he never books an appointment unless you're the stylist. He's been a regular for years, so you don't understand why he only books you, but money is money.

"Regular price?" He asked, glancing up at you.