Angie led the way down Long Avenue with the focused energy of someone who had made a spreadsheet in her head. Oz followed a step behind, shoulders hunched slightly, letting her do the steering while he took in the options. The first few storefronts they passed were clean, polished, and aggressively pleasant, bright neon signs hung above windows displaying sleek mannequins dressed in ever shifting outfits. Arcane thread hummed faintly from within the displays, and one store even had a floating illusion of a rotating elf in four different outfits, each flashing with prices that made Oz twitch. He had money now, he just was not used to it.

  Angie pointed each out as they passed, gesturing to tier distinctions with casual precision. The budget tier offered premade sets conjured by dungeon cores, mass produced and adjusted in store to fit. It was an okay solution if you did not need many options and did not mind seams you could see from orbit. Then came the Dungeon Tailored. These stores worked with a dungeon. You went in and picked from their style catalogue and collection of fabrics and the dungeon shaped it to your needs. Classier, cleaner lines, and fashionable.

  Finally, she waved vaguely towards the small side streets that branched off from the avenue which was where the artisan ateliers waited. The high end tailors with legacy names, known more for their clientele than the actual clothes. It catered to Dynasty types, popular delvers, and other celebrities with opinions about hemwork and mana thread count.

  They did not go up there.

  Oz had no problem with cheap, but with a chest like his and shoulders that got stuck in doorframes, anything off the rack might as well be a potato sack. And [Hoodlum] as a power and a principle recoiled violently at the idea of being dressed in anything that fancy. He nodded towards a storefront tucked halfway into the second tier.

  “Middle one’ll do.”

  They stepped into the first tailor they saw with space. It was clean, but not sterile. A bit too polished, but not enough to feel like you would be hexed for sneezing. Racks of base material lined the walls. It had some options, sorcererweave, reinforced leathers, shimmer dyed silks, along with mannequins showing off the designs on offer.

  When Chops came in, the person behind the till got shirty, before Oz turned his scowl on them. Angie helpfully reminded them that it was illegal to ban familiars from stores. A fact Oz did not know but was pleased to hear. Either way, the glares they got made Oz’s neck prickle and they did not stay long.

  They browsed a few more shops after that. Oz tried to explain what he was looking for, without actually saying “[Hoodlum],” which led to some confused discussions and at least one merchant who sniffed and asked why he expected them to carry “outfits for thugs.”

  Oz did manage to get some workout gear, and some other basics like pants from a store that he understood to be a more budget offering. The clerk told him that he could come back in an hour and collect the fitted results.

  Eventually they split up. Angie veering off to another storefront entirely, one that specialised in adaptable outfits for beastkin and shifters. She waved him off with a grin, saying she needed something that did not explode at the seams the moment her claws came out.

  Oz wandered around till he found a place just before the upmarket tailoring part of Long Avenue started. The designs in the window had a certain level of edgeiness, a word he was half convinced the Ozzer had made up, but which spoke to Hoodlum.

  The bells over the door did not jingle, they shimmered. Literally. A spray of silver sound misted down from a rune inscribed charm above the entrance, giving off the faint scent of burnt cinnamon and smugness.

  Inside, the shop was all deep shadows and moody lighting, with black stained wood, floating signage, and shifting mannequins that moved poses every time you looked away. A sign on the wall read:

  “HEX & THREAD — We Dress Those Who Dare.”

  Underneath, in smaller letters:

  “Curated Urban Arcanism for the Discerning Misfit.”

  Oz stepped inside and was immediately met with the heavy perfume. Every corner of the shop screamed a kind of focus group approved level of danger. The mannequins wore half buttoned shirts with spell burnt sleeves, the dresses had precisely torn hems. It looked like they had just survived a duel in the quad and could not be bothered to clean up.

  Oz thought it looked like everything was second hand, but the Ozzer shushed him.

  Behind the main counter, two attendants, one with perfectly asymmetrical bangs, the other with a monocle on a chain that did not match his young face, looked up. Their smiles died when they saw Chops lumber in behind Oz, one tail wagging lazily as it fought curtains.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said Bangs, eyeing Chops like he was a walking lawsuit. “No pets in the boutique. Store policy.”

  Oz did not slow his stride.

  “He’s not a pet,” he said, glancing back at the two headed familiar now sniffing a suspicious potted plant. “He’s a familiar. It says so on his collar.”

  “Erm, he’s a very big familiar,” said Monocle. “Are you certain?”

  Before Oz could offer a reply, his eyes landed on a pair of boots displayed on a levitating pedestal. Deep brown arcane leather, combat cut with metal toe caps that would be perfect to hold a rune, and soles thick enough to walk across a bed of nails. They were perfect, and that was if he ignored the magpie part of his brain that all dwarves were cursed with, which adored the silver thread laces.

  Oz liked the look. The Ozzer felt certain Hoodlum would too.

  “How much for the boots?” Oz asked, already reaching into his jacket. He wanted the shopping to be done, so was keen to buy at least something to make the last half hour worth it.

  “They’re from the Feral Mischief line,” Bangs said delicately, clearly preparing to explain why Oz could not afford them. “Limited run. I’m afraid—”

  Oz pulled out the card.

  It hit the counter with a sound like a vault locking shut, solid, metallic, and final. The runes on its surface glowed faintly with old money and older magic.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Monocle inhaled sharply. Bangs choked.

  “Of course,” Monocle said smoothly, already stepping out from behind the counter. “Mister…?”

  “Oz.”

  “Mister Oz,” Monocle continued, “please. Allow me to escort you to one of our private fitting chambers. You will find them significantly more exclusive.”

  “Sure,” Oz said, already nudging the boots off the pedestal. “But he comes too.”

  Chops sneezed loudly, one tail nearly knocking over what seemed to be a display of cursed scarves.

  Monocle smiled like their entire day had been rewritten.

  “Naturally, sir. We would not dare separate a man from his familiar.”

  As they led him towards the back, the store’s motto shimmered again across the wall. Oz snorted.

  “Discerning misfit, huh?” he muttered. “We will see about that.”

  Inside the private fitting chamber of Hex & Thread, the illusion glass rippled like the surface of a moonlit pond. Oz suspected this was a deliberate effect to add to the air of mystery. Oz stood in the centre of some gnomish runes he would really rather be studying. The last illusion melted away, revealing his shirtless form. He had even taken off his clanwraps, revealing his hairless arms and torso. His trollish heritage robbing him of the majestic body hair most dwarves boasted.

  His reflection hovered in the illusion glass, a tall for a dwarf, broad shouldered man with the kind of frame that made anyone who promised one size fits all start to sweat.

  The new projection shimmered into place, showing him in a sleek hoodie with decorative runes splashed haphazardly across it. It snug across the shoulders, the sleeves stretched taut as he flexed arms like iron bars. Below that, cargo trousers in a fabric as black as the void clung to thick legs.

  “This is from our Urban Attire line. We can make it a bit less tight fitting?” Monocle asked, trying to sound breezy and utterly failing. His tone cracked the pressure of Oz’s permanent scowl, throwing off his usual confidence. “I think this one really suits you. A fine balance of menace and modernity. Very… tactically brooding.”

  He twitched his fingers, and the illusion shimmered, hood drawn, shadows curling around Oz’s mirrored face just enough to suggest this man absolutely did crimes.

  From the back corner, Chops gave a single approving bark, one head perking up like a judge declaring “passable.”

  Monocle flinched. “A and your familiar has exquisite taste, naturally. A fashion forward beast with a keen eye for aesthetic threat.”

  “Too clean, too tight. I would never be able to fight in it,” Oz said flatly. He did not move from where he stood. “Take the arms off the hoodie. Not a neat cut, make it look like I hacked it off myself.”

  Monocle nodded and made some adjustments. The glass shimmered. The sleeves vanished, leaving behind raw, uneven but somehow manicured edges that looked like sleeves had violently escaped.

  “Better,” Oz muttered, watching his reflection with a slight nod.

  Monocle clapped once, too fast, too loud.

  “Inspired, sir. Casually feral. A bold update. Might I tempt you with something even more subversive? Option Three, perhaps. It is a favourite among our alchemy scene clientele. Very underground rebellion meets curated despair.”

  Option Three bloomed in the glass, a glamour fibre hoodie with feathered lining, and a half cape draped across one shoulder like an apology from a vampire.

  Oz stared at it for two seconds.

  “It makes me look like I sell ‘incense’ out the back of a potion cart?” Oz deadpanned.

  “Exactly!” Monocle chirped, then froze. “I, I mean, not literally, sir. Just… figuratively seditious.”

  “I’m good,” Oz muttered, trying to ignore the fact he now knew what seditious meant.

  Monocle recovered quickly. “Stunning, Mister Oz. Shall we elevate the tone? Perhaps a more academically lethal look? Option Four, if I may. Dark academia with a whisper of rebellious intent chamber chic?”

  “If there is a cravat, I’m walking out.”

  “No cravat!” Monocle said quickly. “Just a double breasted waistcoat enchanted for minor warding, and cuff embroidery, and slacks tailored with a boot cut.”

  The projection shimmered again. The outfit was too clean, too precise.

  “It needs to be more jank,” Oz said, squinting at the projection, the Ozzer’s word slipping in.

  Monocle blinked. “Jank, sir?”

  “Or janky,” Oz clarified. “Like it used to be good, but then got into a fight.”

  So they continued to explore options, Oz giving feedback, both from his taste and to match Hoodlum’s needs. It annoyed him to buy things that looked second hand, but given how his power had been creasing his uniform he knew he needed something that would work with it rather than against. The Ozzer was invaluable in guiding him towards the right kind of thuggery.

  “Finally, we have this outfit. It is from The Respectable Menace line.”

  “Respectable menace?” Oz raised an eyebrow.

  “We love our irony.”

  The illusion flickered to a new look, open collared shirt, sharp suit jacket that covered a leather holster for a wand or blade, plus a thick chain necklace. It looked like a bar bouncer for a place that catered to the refined villain.

  “That looks good.” Oz nodded as Chops barked twice,.

  “Sold,” Oz said, eyes still on the glass. “Hoodie and the Respectable Menace. Those sturdy denim trousers, but without the rips and holes. I can manage them myself. And do not forget the boots.”

  “Y yes Mister Oz. Of course. Anything else. Enchantments?”

  Oz considered it but then waved the idea off.

  “Nah,” he said. “I will do that myself. You said I can choose the heavy durable fabric, right?”

  “Yes, the dungeon we are contracted with will take the fabric from here and shape it as needed with its magic. It is much more efficient than manifesting it from nothing, and allows for a broad selection of offerings. I will ensure that all of the fabrics are rated for combat.”

  “Great, that is me done. Let’s pay.”

  Oz ignored how Monocle lit up at that statement.

  Oz walked out of the store in his new Respectable Menace outfit. The dungeon magic was very quick and Oz was amazed at how fast it had all happened. Plus the clothes fit incredibly well which was a first for him.

  [Voidthead Bootcut Slacks have strong conductivity with Hoodlum]

  [Steel toecap boots have strong conductivity with Hoodlum]

  He had put the new outfit and boots on but kept his classic fleece lined jacket on. It kept him grounded. A reminder he needed after spending more money on clothes in an afternoon than he had spent in the last few years combined. He would have thought it was a rip off if Angie had not already given him some ideas of the costs, combined with his visits to the other shops before ending up at Hex & Thread.

  He met with Angie who seemed surprised with his look, and kept looking like she wanted to say something. They still had an hour before they met up with Angie’s dad, so Oz picked up his workout gear, and then visited another few shops.

  Finding a shop nearby that claimed to be Clan Couture. Which while mostly full of outfits that did not look like any dwarf look Oz recognised, there was a total lack of anything shiny, it did hold knapping kits. A tool box claiming it had everything you needed to knap your own blade.

  Oz checked it was not just a rock and when he found a fancy looking but serviceable toolkit he grabbed that. It also had some knife and axe handles which Oz grabbed as well, he had plans to make a few extra weapons before the term began. They were a bit fancy but he did not really have the time or tools to make his own right now.

  From a trollish place he zeroed in on the large neckerchiefs with the kind of tessellating geometric patterns his mum had shown him. He bought himself a bunch, and a couple for Chops. Tying them round Chops’ neck helped ease his look.

  That done, he and Angie headed off towards the restaurant where they had agreed to meet Angie’s dad.