Until the last threads of sunlight were gathered by the silver skyline, this unassuming bespoke suit shop finally turned its lock, waiting in silence for its guest.
The bald tailor slipped off his tortoiseshell glasses and counted the loose bills and coins in the old cash register.
"He's here."
The assistant set down the invoice and the freshly sharpened pencil, pressed it to the table, and snapped the point clean off with his thumb.
"John Hastings."
The tailor shut the register drawer, lowered the needle onto the spinning vinyl, and turned up the lights. He wiped his hands quickly on a scrap of leftover cloth before sliding his glasses back on.
They heard it—the familiar supercharged growl of the Dodge Hellcat's V8. Over the studied calm of cool jazz, tires bit the asphalt in a drifting halt.
The brass bell above the door rang as the glass swung open.
"Good evening, sir. How may I assist you?"
The tailor stepped forward in welcome. Behind the counter, the assistant turned a page of the invoice with one hand while the other—out of sight—closed around the hidden short-barreled shotgun and eased off the safety.
Backlit by the fractured neon of the night, John Hastings lifted the hem of his coat to show he carried nothing.
"A custom fitting," he said.
The tailor raised an eyebrow. The assistant's finger drifted away from the trigger.
"It's been some time, Mr. Hastings."
A small bow.
"This way, please."
He guided John to the mirror wall at the far end of the changing room and pressed a concealed catch in the left frame. The entire panel—reflections and all—slid silently aside.
"What occasion calls for the attire, Mr. Hastings?"
They entered a low-lit chamber walled in honeycomb acoustic foam. Ten meters downrange stood a mannequin in a three-piece suit, serving as the target.
"A dinner party."
The words had barely left his mouth when the assistant stepped in. He presented a Glock flat on his open palm for John to see, then seated the magazine, drew, and put five rounds into the target.
Sparks danced across the fabric; dull metallic thumps followed. The deformed slugs rang against the floor.
Next came the double-barreled shotgun—two 12-gauge buckshot shells loaded, raised, and fired.
The pellets rolled and ricocheted across the suit, charring small patches but never breaking through.
"The ballistic layer is laminated CNT—carbon nanotubes—and composite graphene, courtesy of some ingenious friends in the East. Quality is not in question."
The tailor unfurled the supple armor panel before John—thin, yet impossibly strong.
"It will stop most common handgun rounds and conventional buckshot… though I should warn you: it will still hurt like hell."
He drew his measuring tape and took John's measurements in front of the tall mirror.
Draping the jacket over John's shoulders, he began to cut and shape close to the body.
"Refreshments, sir?"
John gave a small nod.
"The sommelier is upstairs."
Pushing through the bar door, John entered a room lit by warm yellow strips that framed five walls of gun racks—nearly a hundred pieces, most subtly customized classics.
"Good evening, Mr. Hastings. It has been too long."
The sommelier, gloved in white and attired like a waiter, stood behind the long table in quiet attendance.
"I'd like a tasting."
John surveyed the half-circle of weapons.
"I recall your past preference for German varietals, but I can wholeheartedly endorse these new arrivals from Heckler & Koch."
He turned, lifted a pistol with both hands, and offered it.
"VP9L competition edition. Custom grip, extended magazine well for swifter reloads. Five-inch cold-hammer-forged polygonal barrel with O-ring seal. Precision married to reliability—I believe it will suit you."
John accepted the pistol, weighing it first in his palm. He racked the extended slide twice, feeling the aggressive serrations and smooth travel, then locked it back and dry-fired: short pull, sharp reset.
"I'll need something more robust. Precise."
The sommelier smiled and retrieved a rifle from the rack.
"Robust. Precise."
John took it as the sommelier continued:
"MR762 A5. Sixteen-and-a-half-inch chrome-lined barrel, short-stroke gas-piston system, slim free-float handguard, Trijicon 1-6× variable optic."
John cycled the charging handle several times—effortless, no wobble. The ambidextrous controls felt instinctive, a legacy he knew well. Shouldered, the M-LOK handguard sat perfectly in the pocket of his hand. A quick magazine swap through the flared well was butter-smooth. Through the optic, the reticle sat crisp and glare-free.
He set the rifle down.
"Anything for the close of the evening? Something bold… extravagant."
The sommelier nodded and selected a shotgun.
"May I suggest the Benelli M4? Oversized bolt release, extended tube—should the night require a more decisive finish."
John worked the action—pulled the charging handle, opened the port, shouldered, and cycled it through.
"Dessert?"
The sommelier drew back the cloth on the table, revealing a neat row of cylindrical grenades.
"'Cold burn' smoke—dense black cloud, non-toxic, fragmentation-free. A private blend, prepared for you alone. Shall I have them sent up?"
John fastened his jacket button.
"Yes. Thank you."
The sommelier's smile deepened. He clasped his hands before him, faint lines gathering at the corners of his eyes.
"Excellent."