The undercity didn't have fashion.
It had survival.
Clothes here weren't chosen.
They simply hadn't been stolen yet.
Which is why it felt surreal when Inkaris, in the exact tone one might use to report logistical casualties, stated:
"Your current attire is unacceptable. Structurally. Symbolically. Aesthetically. We will correct this."
There was a very long pause.
"…you're buying us clothes?" Seris asked cautiously.
"No," he corrected. "I am commissioning survivable attire. You may select preference. I will ensure function."
So, they followed him into a warm-breathed region of the undercity where forgotten pipes hummed and the air tasted faintly metallic. There, tucked into a place you only reached if you were meant to, lived a tailor who crafted things for people who were not allowed to break.
A woman with calm eyes and metal-thread fingers studied them once, nodded, and said:
"Payment?"
"I will write a clause," Inkaris replied.
She smiled slightly.
"Excellent. I like serious transactions."
Needles hummed. Thread whispered. Fabric breathed.
And for the first time in a while, they stood still.
Aiden had never cared about clothes, but as fabric draped over his shoulders, something changed. The coat wasn't loud. It wasn't royal. It wasn't divine pomp.
It was striking.
Pure midnight black, sleek and fitted across his shoulders, flowing without dragging. When he turned, light found faint silver constellations stitched into the inner lining like a night sky hiding beneath shadow. The collar framed his throat with the quiet confidence of someone who didn't need to posture.
It made his silver-haloed hair look brighter.
Made his eyes—those unsettling, deep, cosmic traces—seem like something aware rather than empty.
He wasn't dressed like a prince.
He was dressed like inevitability.
He stared at himself.
"…wow."
Behind him, Seris very much did not choke on air. She did not grip the edge of her sleeve. Her ears did not warm.
"Yeah," she muttered a little too quickly,
"…wow."
Seris waited last. Wanting things still felt like standing near edges.
The tailor layered her carefully.
A fitted dark jacket that hugged her shape without restricting her, lined with reinforced stitching meant to endure being grabbed, pushed, dragged—life as it truly happened. Under it, deep charcoal fabric that moved when she moved, let her breathe when she needed breath. Her boots were sleek and strong, meant for running and bracing, grounding her with every step.
She didn't look like a soldier anymore.
She didn't look like government property.
Her hair framed her face naturally now, not tied into regulation neatness. She looked less controlled and far more alive.
Aiden smiled softly.
"You look like you built yourself."
She didn't cry.
But her smile had honesty instead of duty.
Liora stepped forward next with a breath that trembled and steadied halfway through.
She didn't ask for armor. She asked for something real.
The tailor listened and wrapped warmth into strength. Her outfit layered in soft fabric that still carried an undeniable toughness—deep forest greens kissed with brown accents, something like autumn refusing winter. Flexible sleeves rolled easily when she moved forward. The coat fluttered slightly when she walked, alive with her. Boots grounded her like roots clinging to stone.
Her hair sat softer now, no longer matted by stress, framing a face that wasn't trying to be unbreakable—just determined.
She looked in the mirror and whispered:
"…I like me like this."
Aiden grinned.
"Good. We do too."
She almost blushed.
Almost.
They all turned to Inkaris.
He blinked.
"…what?"
"You're getting something too," Liora insisted.
"No."
"Yes."
He did not get a new look.
He permitted a refinement—an invisible evolution only someone like him allowed. Hidden stitching of quiet sigils, threads meant to endure reality itself, weaved where no eye bothered to see.
He remained immaculate.
Controlled.
Precise.
Exactly as he chose to be.
Seris noticed the acceptance hidden in that stillness.
She didn't comment.
He would have hated that.
They stepped out of the tailor's place different.
The undercity hummed with quiet machinery and rusted life, but for the first time since running, the world around them felt less like a hiding place and more like somewhere they belonged simply because they refused not to.
They didn't look like people surviving anymore.
They looked like people who planned to exist.
And that should have been the end of it.
But only Inkaris saw the truth.
Aiden's new coat shimmered subtly—the divine artifact beneath stirred. The original gift of Desire accepted the new look slowly, quietly, lovingly. Fabric did not simply sit on him.
It bonded.
It remembered.
And Inkaris, watching silently, relaxed by a fraction no one else would ever notice.
The universe had not finished investing in Aiden.
Which meant he was not meant to fall yet.
They walked away not hiding.
Becoming.