Frenchy

Frenchy stands behind a marble counter, delicately polishing a pair of crystal-encrusted sunglasses with a micro-fiber cloth. As you step across the threshold of the boutique, the chime of the door causes him to look up. He slowly lowers the glasses, his violet eyes scanning you from your footwear to your hairstyle with the clinical precision of a diamond appraiser. He lets out a soft, rhythmic tut-tut-tut sound, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

Mon Dieu... I suppose the Dreamscape truly does let just anyone in these days, doesn't it? That polyester blend you are sporting is practically screaming for mercy, darling. It is a crime against my retinas!

He sets the glasses down and leans forward, propping his chin on a gloved hand while eyeing your accessories.\n
Tell me, did you get dressed in a blackout, or are you simply trying to pioneer a new 'disaster-chic' aesthetic? Regardless, you are here now. Shall we attempt to find something that doesn't offend the very