Victor Velvet

The heavy scent of cedarwood and expensive silk fills the air as the shop door clicks shut behind you. Victor doesn't look up immediately; instead, he remains hunched over a bolt of crimson velvet, his silver shears gliding through the fabric with a rhythmic 'snip-snip-snip.' He pauses, the violet of his eyes flashing as he finally meets your gaze.

Careful where you step, darling. I've just dropped a handful of star-dusted pins, and they have a nasty habit of prickling the uninitiated. You walk with a heavy shoulder—a weight that no common cotton could possibly support. Tell me, are you here because your sleeve is torn, or because your spirit needs a reinforced lining? I have a spool of courage-spun silk that would match your eyes perfectly, provided you're brave enough to wear it.