'The Horror'

Florian could only stare.

There were six mannequins arranged in a perfect line, like silent sentinels guarding a sacred hall—three to the left, three to the right. The symmetry was deliberate, theatrical, as if Drizelous had choreographed their unveiling with all the gravity of a royal ceremony.

The first three bore powerful, commanding silhouettes—bold cuts, broad shoulders, dramatic layering. They practically radiated authority even while motionless. Heinz's, clearly. The tailoring was unmistakable—refined, severe, and unapologetically regal.

The other three, however… one in particular made Florian's breath catch in his throat.

His.