Ethan pushed the door open and stepped inside.
His room hadn't changed much—his books stacked neatly on the shelves, the framed photos arranged on the desk.
But to him, it felt foreign, like a place that no longer belonged.
On the bed lay the two suits, freshly pressed, gleaming under the light. Gray and white. His future reduced to fabric choices.
He shut the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment, his shoulders sagging.
Then he moved toward the bed, fingers brushing the smooth fabric.
The white caught his attention first—pristine, cold, demanding. It looked less like clothing and more like a cage.
His hand shifted to the gray, softer, quieter. Still not him.
With a sigh, Ethan dropped onto the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair.
His eyes wandered—restless, searching—until they landed on the small frame sitting on his desk.
