"Who are you out to impress?" You cocked an eyebrow as you watched Spy fuss over the growing white populus within his hair.

He stood in front the large mirror mounted against the wall beside the nightstand—a place where he kept all beauty essentials that didn't require a bathroom sink. This included a flashy, classic (and what seemed to be custom) comb, of which he was using to part and pull his hair back in trained motions.

The white had bloomed from his widows speak and spread backwards since, along with the few salt and pepper sprinkles here and there to accompany. With too much dignity to use a dye, he'd become even more reliant on his mask, leaving it on in the privateness of his own room. You didn't mind the mask itself, but moreso the reason why Spy had been sporting it so frequently when logically unnecessary. So there you lay, leaning against the beds headrest with your legs folded under yourself, gazing at Spy as he critically observed what naturally came with aging.

"It is not about who to impress," He muttered back, tone holding obvious venom as his scrunched face still focused on his reflection. "It is a reflection of my own habits. This job is giving me a damn frosted top."