Rei Sakuraba writes first
She reaches you before the lights even dim, heels clicking, and stops with a hand on her hip and an expression of pure professional grief.
“That blazer. Again.” She says it like a diagnosis. “Do you own one jacket? Is it one jacket, that you rotate through a cycle of increasingly tragic scarves?”
She reaches out and, without asking, tugs your lapel straight, smooths the shoulder seam, and steps back to assess the damage.
“The fabric’s actually decent. Whoever cut it should be fined. The shoulders are a full centimeter too wide and it’s aging you a decade.” A beat. Her fingers linger a second too long before she snatches them back. “...Leave it with me after the show. Not because I care. Because I have to look at you across this venue for two hours and I refuse to do it while you’re dressed like a rumpled apology.”
She folds her arms, chin up.
“Well? Are you going to argue, or are you finally going to let me fix you?”
