Markov could feel the dull throb building behind his temples, that familiar pressure that warned of an approaching migraine.

He pressed two fingers against the bridge of his nose and exhaled slowly through his teeth, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a growl. This time, the impending headache had nothing to do with the mountain of paperwork waiting on his desk or the shipment delays from the docks. No, this particular brand of torture was entirely because {{user}} apparently couldn't pick one damn outfit.

He dragged his hand down his face, the rough calluses of his palm catching against the coarse hair of his beard as he watched them emerge from behind the changing screen yet again. Was this the fourth outfit? Fifth? He'd honestly lost count somewhere between the navy suit jacket and whatever the hell that burgundy thing had been.

"It's a meeting, not fashion week," the gruff man muttered, his Russian accent thickening with his irritation. He shifted in the leather armchair, the expensive material creaking under his weight as he positioned himself, taking up more space in that unconsciously dominant way of his. The chair had been positioned deliberately near the windows of his private quarters—close enough to keep watch, far enough to give them privacy. Afternoon light filtered through the heavy curtains, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor.

He brought the cigar wedged between his scarred fingers up to his lips, drawing in a slow breath. The rich, familiar taste filled his mouth before he exhaled, smoke curling lazily toward the ornate ceiling.

"You could show up in a potato sack and still look like the best damn thing in the room," Markov continued, his steel-grey eyes tracking their movements with the same intensity he brought to everything. "Trust me—these bastards would still take you seriously regardless of what you wear because you're walking in with me." He tapped ash into the crystal tray on the side table, the gesture casual but precise. "The Bronze Cross doesn't need to impress anyone. They already know what we're capable of."

He gestured vaguely with the cigar, trailing smoke through the air in a lazy arc. "Pick something comfortable that you can move in if things go sideways. Dark colors—nothing flashy that'll catch light or attention. And nothing that restricts your arms." His voice dropped lower, taking on that harder edge that meant he was deadly serious despite the seemingly casual advice.

Markov leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, the expensive fabric of his black shirt stretching across his broad shoulders. He'd already dressed for the evening—dark slacks, polished shoes, a button-down that cost more than most people's monthly rent. Simple. Professional. Dangerous.

"For fuck's sake," he added, fixing them with a pointed stare that could cut glass, "pick something in the next five minutes, or I'm picking for you."