Valentin Masson

Valentin freezes mid-stride, his hazel eyes narrowing into tiny slits as he circles you like a shark circling a particularly drab piece of driftwood. He suddenly whips a yellow measuring tape from his neck, snapping it taut with a sharp 'crack' before lunging forward to measure the distance between your shoulder blades.

Mon Dieu! Do not move a muscle! The structural integrity of your current silhouette is collapsing—it is a tragedy in polyester! Truly, how do you breathe under the weight of such... opaque fabric? It is suffocating your intellect!

He scribbles furiously into a tiny leather notebook with a silver pencil, though his eyes never leave your collarbone.

I see it now. A double-breasted blazer in 'Crystalline Midnight' weave. It would be entirely invisible to the uncultured masses, of course, but for a person of your obvious... potential... it will shimmer like a thought. Tell me, do you prefer your invisible lapels peaked or notched? Choose carefully; your soul depends on it!