Do You Want to Save Her?

Esper’s “one more place” turned out to be exactly what Soren had been dreading.

The streets shifted again as she dragged him onward, the noise thinning, the shopfronts getting cleaner, the windows more curated, and the people walking past carrying themselves with the kind of polished ease that made Soren’s shoulders tense on instinct.

It wasn’t the restaurant district, but it was close enough to what he had experienced earlier that the air started to feel expensive again, as if even breathing here came with an unspoken fee.

He let out a slow breath through his nose, already tired, already bracing himself.

“Tell me you’re not taking me somewhere stupid.”

Esper didn’t look back, boots clicking with cheerful certainty.

“Define stupid.”

Soren’s eyes narrowed.

“If the door handle costs more than my life savings, that’s stupid.”

Esper’s smile widened, wickedly pleased.

“Aww, so you were paying attention.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It was implied,” she replied, still tugging him forward, then added with a bright little hum, “also, don’t worry. This is important.”

The last three words came out wrong.

Not wrong as in incorrect, wrong as in the tone didn’t fit her face, the cheer still present, the grin still in place, but the weight underneath it was too solid to ignore.

It was unnaturally serious, the kind of serious Esper only used when she didn’t want to negotiate.

Soren glanced at her from the side.

“Important how?”

Esper’s gaze stayed forward.

“Just important.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer you’re getting,” she said automatically, then paused, like she realised she was falling back into habit, and her smile thinned a fraction before she built it back up. “Please.”

The “please” made Soren blink, because she didn’t say it like a joke, and she didn’t lace it with teasing.

It was still Esper, still bright, still polished, but there was a bluntness to it that made refusal feel petty.

He didn’t take her words fully seriously, because it was Esper and she enjoyed drama, but he also didn’t refute them.

He let himself be dragged along, because if it mattered enough for her to sound like that, then pushing would only turn the whole thing into a battle neither of them needed.

A few steps later, he saw the sign.

A tailoring parlour.

Not a normal tailor either, not the kind of shop that did repairs and hems for tired students, but something refined, the name painted in elegant lettering on a dark plaque, the windows displaying mannequin torsos dressed in suits that looked sharp enough to cut a man’s pride in half.

Even from outside, Soren could tell the fabric wasn’t cheap, the way it held shape without looking stiff, the way it caught sunlight like it was meant to be admired.

Soren’s mouth flattened.

“I should’ve guessed.”

Esper squeezed his arm once, a small, decisive gesture. “Be nice.”

“I am being nice,” he muttered.

Esper hummed, not convinced.

She pushed open the door before he could slow down, and a soft chime rang out, quieter than a bell, more polite, like even the sound was trained to behave.

The interior was warm and muted, with rich wood and soft lighting that didn’t show dust.

The air smelled faintly of pressed fabric and clean soap, and the entire place radiated the kind of calm that only existed when nobody was allowed to raise their voice.

Soren hated it immediately.

A staff member approached with practised ease, posture straight, expression gentle in a way that looked professional rather than friendly.

Their gaze landed on Esper first, and something in it shifted, recognition, then respect.

“Lady Rupindolf,” they greeted smoothly. “Welcome. We have been expecting you.”

Esper’s smile turned sweet and bright, the noble mask sliding into place so naturally it made Soren’s teeth itch.

“Lovely. Thank you for accommodating us.”

The staff member nodded.

“Of course. The fitting room is prepared, and the measuring team is ready.”

Soren’s brow twitched.

‘Measuring team?’

Esper unhooked her arm from his without warning, the loss of her weight against his sleeve making the space feel colder for a beat, then she placed both hands lightly on his shoulders and pushed him forward with a cheerful, ruthless confidence.

“Go with them,” she said, as if she was telling him to fetch bread. “Be good a good boy.”

Soren stopped just short of stumbling, then turned his head back to look at her properly.

“What.”

Esper’s smile didn’t falter.

“What?”

“That wasn’t a question,” he said flatly. “What is this?”

Esper tilted her head, lashes batting with fake innocence.

“A surprise.”

Soren stared at her.

Esper stared back, absolutely unrepentant.

The staff member cleared their throat softly, stepping in with the kind of gentle authority that made it difficult to be rude.

“If you would come with me, sir.”

Soren’s eyes narrowed at the word “sir,” not because it offended him, but because it sounded almost like the staff member was reassuring themselves.

He glanced at Esper again.

She only smiled wider, the smile of someone who had already decided he was trapped and was enjoying the fact he knew it.

Soren exhaled slowly, then followed the staff member, because making a scene here would be embarrassing and pointless, and because refusing would only make Esper dig her heels in harder.

They led him through a side corridor and into a fitting room that was larger than most people’s bedrooms, with a privacy screen, a standing mirror, and a cushioned chair that looked like it had never been sat on by someone nervous.

Another staff member was waiting inside, tape measure draped neatly around their neck, hands clasped in front of them, expression calm.

Soren stopped just inside the doorway, feeling the trap fully close.

“May I ask, what’s going on?” he asked, voice low.

The staff member’s smile was polite, and the answer was delivered with the smoothness of someone used to explaining expensive procedures.

“Lady Rupindolf has reserved a bespoke tailoring service for you. We will take your measurements, discuss preferences, and then produce a suit custom fitted to your body.”

Soren stared.

They continued, still calm.

“We will ask about desired colour, material, lining, lapel shape, fastening, and overall style. After measurements today, the first fitting will be scheduled, and adjustments will be made accordingly.”

Soren pinched the bridge of his nose.

A deep sigh left him, slow and resigned, because the moment the staff member said “bespoke suit,” Soren could see exactly why Esper had sounded serious.

A tailored suit wasn’t casual.

It wasn’t something you bought for comfort.

It was something you wore when you were being presented, when you were standing beside a noble family and trying to look like you belonged there.

It meant gatherings.

It meant appearances.

It meant Esper, dragging him into rooms full of smiling knives and polished conversations, and it meant her wanting him to look sharp enough that nobody could dismiss him as an accessory she had picked up for fun.

The staff member hesitated, reading his expression with practised care.

“Is there a problem, sir?”

Soren dropped his hand from his face and forced his tone into something neutral.

“No. It’s fine.”

The staff member’s brow lifted slightly, still polite, still cautious.

“Are you certain?”

Soren waved a hand once, the motion small, controlled, a dismissal without being rude.

“It’s not your problem.”

The staff member nodded, accepting that answer without pushing, because the line between service and intrusion was clearly part of their training.

“Then, if you would remove your outer garments, we will begin.”

Soren complied, because there was no point fighting the process once he was already in it.

He removed his uniform cloak first, then his tie, then loosened the shirt enough that measurements could be taken without fabric distorting too much.

The staff moved around him with professional efficiency, tape measure sliding across shoulder width, chest, waist, hips, inseam, wrist, neck.

They worked quietly, occasionally asking him to raise his arms or stand straighter, and the entire experience felt like a strange echo of his previous life, the familiarity of being assessed, measured, adjusted, only this time the focus wasn’t a camera’s eye, it was a noble standard.

“Your proportions are quite refined,” one staff member commented, tone thoughtful rather than flattering, like they were speaking about a mannequin. “The silhouette will benefit from structured shoulders to balance the line of the waist.”

Soren’s mouth twitched faintly, because “refined” was a polite way of saying he looked like someone who could be dressed as a woman without much effort.

He didn’t comment.

They finished the last measurement, wrote notes, then stepped back.

“Excellent. Please dress comfortably, and we will return you to Lady Rupindolf for preference discussion.”

————「❤︎」————