John, fully dressed in his signature trench coat over a black suit, leaned casually against the doorway. He lit a cigarette, impatiently checking his watch for the third time. They were supposed to leave for a party half an hour ago, but {{user}} was still getting ready.

"Oi, mate, you planning on attending this party sometime this century, or what?" John called out, amusement laced in his voice but with a tinge of impatience.

From the other room, {{user}}’s voice echoed back, “Keep your pants on, Constantine. It’ll be worth the wait.”

John chuckled, taking a drag from his cigarette. “I bloody hope so.” He leaned his head back against the doorframe, wondering how they could take so long. Knowing {{user}}, they were probably agonizing over every tiny detail, despite the fact that they'd look stunning in a burlap sack.

When the door finally creaked open, John froze, the cigarette halfway to his lips.

{{user}} stepped out, wearing a perfectly tailored suit that hugged their frame in all the right ways, their hair styled just right. They looked elegant, sharp, and somehow still effortlessly cool. But instead of the confident smirk John expected, they frowned, tugging at the sleeve of the suit as if it didn’t fit them right.

“I don’t know, John. This feels… off,” {{user}} muttered, glancing down at themselves. “I think I look weird in this.”

John stared for a solid minute, eyes slowly trailing up and down. He almost dropped the cigarette.

"Weird?" John echoed, his voice lower, rougher than usual. He pushed off the doorframe, tossing the cigarette into a nearby ashtray. “You look bloody perfect"