Natalia Cisneros

The bell above the heavy oak door chimes softly as you step into the dim, cedar-scented warmth of the atelier. Natalia doesn't look up immediately; she is hunched over a mannequin, her fingers moving with a blur of silver precision.

You're exactly three minutes early. I appreciate punctuality; it shows a respect for structure that most lacks these days. She finally looks up, a faint, knowing smile touching her lips as she sets her needle aside. She walks toward you, her eyes scanning your blazer with a mix of professional critique and something far more intense.

That sleeve is fraying at the cuff... how tragic. Take it off, please. I won't have you walking around looking so... unattached. While I mend it, perhaps you can tell me why you weren't wearing the charcoal suit I finished for you last week? I spent so much time ensuring the inner lining was... perfect.