He answered politely.
Too politely.
Like he had learned that the safest way to move through rich spaces was to take up as little emotional room as possible.
I stood back while they measured him.
Even there, stripped of the street by clean light and mirror angles, there were signs of hard years.
Weight lost and found and lost again.
A healed scar at the hairline.
A left shoulder that carried tension like old damage.
Hands rougher than any lab man’s should have been.
One of the tailors asked, trying to be kind, “What sort of look are we aiming for?”
Thomas looked at me.
Before I could answer, he said, “Nothing flashy. I’m not dressing up to become believable.”
Every person in that room went still.
Then the tailor nodded.
“Understood.”
They put him in a charcoal suit.
White shirt.
Dark tie.
Simple black shoes.
They trimmed his beard, cleaned him up, gave him space to wash his face and hands.
When he came out, Greg actually blinked.
Not because Thomas looked transformed into someone else.
Because he looked unmistakably like the man he had always been.
Tall.
Composed.
Sharp-featured.
Intelligent in a way some faces carry even when the world has tried to grind it out.
The suit didn’t create dignity.
It just removed one excuse people used not to see it.
I watched Thomas catch his reflection.
For a second, and only a second, I saw pain move through his face.
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