He reached the tailor shop in under a minute, easy to spot by the glowing sign in the window: a needle and thread looping endlessly in the air.

At first glance it seemed a simple trick of light, but when he tilted his head and studied it, the craft revealed itself. The glow emanated from a polished shard of crystal set low within a framework of stretched and shaped glass. Light bent and refracted, weaving upward until the thread appeared to stitch itself through empty space. Illusion magic, bound with crystal, glass, and clever hands.

That kind of craft—unlike the smoke-belching steam-carriages—he could appreciate.

Pushing open the door, he announced himself.

“Good day… uhh… madam?” he said, hesitantly.

The figure behind the counter wasn’t quite what Fuku had expected. Broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, with features that leaned neither way nor the other. Fuku decided to play it safe and stick with They.

“Morning…” came a voice rasping so deep it seemed to scrape the floor. “What can I do for you?”

“Ahem… I am in need of some large trousers… for a friend.”

“What’s the measurements?” she asked, levering herself off the stool. It gave a tortured creak of relief, wood and metal groaning like they’d been set free from years of service.

“I am sorry to say I don’t have exact measurements, you see—”

“How tall?” They cut him off.

“Uhhh… very tall. Seven feet?” he guessed, his voice climbing an octave.

“Okay… how fat?”

Fuku definitely wouldn’t call Ben fat. Thick, yes—muscular, built heavy like a bull—but not fat. His frame was somewhere between bovine and human: dense, broad, and scaled up to a size that made him massive, imposing.

“I would say his waist is…” Fuku spread his arms wide, then hesitated. His wingspan in this form seemed far too round to capture it properly. If he’d had his normal paws, he could have simply spread them wide and let the attendant infer the size—but with human arms, the gesture felt clumsy.

“A fatty, then?” the shopkeeper said flatly. “Follow me.”

Fuku bristled at hearing the attendant call Ben “a fatty”. But given his vague description of Ben’s dimensions—he supposed it was the conclusion most people would jump to.

“Here. Biggest I’ve got,” the attendant said, pulling a pair of silken black trousers from a rack. Crisp, pressed, clearly meant for a banquet, not a slog through mud and wilderness.

Fuku pinched the fabric between his fingers. Luxuriously soft. He wouldn’t have minded seeing Ben in a dapper suit—something to match the one he wore now. But that wasn’t the future either of them faced. Utility took precedence though, so formalwear was out.

“I see… do you perchance have something a little more… durable?” he asked, withdrawing his fingers.

The attendant let out a long-suffering sigh and shuffled to the other side of the shop. Fuku followed, watching as they dug through stacks of pants in a dark blue fabric, rummaging for a particular pair.

This side of the shop was less display and more storage—bins of folded clothes rather than carefully hung attire. The divide between the polished formal wear and the heap of working man’s garments was plain, and Fuku understood the reasoning. He even understood why the attendant had first steered him toward the pricier, tailored items. But the careless way these everyday clothes were simply piled together made him decide he wouldn’t be returning to this shop anytime soon.

“How about these?” they asked, holding out a folded pair of thick denim trousers.

Fuku had never touched denim before. He ran his fingers across the fabric, testing its stiff weave, the strong, interlaced fibers. “Yes. These shall do,” he replied.

Without another word, the attendant waddled back to the counter and dropped onto their creaking stool. “Three silver and two copper for the jeans.”

“Ahhh… yes,” Fuku said, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out four copper pieces and a single silver, then frowned at the little pile in his palm.

“Ahem… it seems I don’t have quite enough,” he admitted, staring at the coins.

He had more. Far more. By human standards, he was probably rich—his tail held stacks of treasure he’d taken from chests in his travels. But while in this form, that magical vault was sealed shut—for obvious reasons.

The shopkeeper leaned forward over the counter, eyes narrowing at the coins. “Sorry. No bargaining. Prices are set.”

“Yes, of course,” Fuku replied smoothly, though inside he cursed his luck. He forced a polite smile. “If you would be so kind as to set these aside for me, I’ll return shortly with the proper amount.”

In any other circumstance, he would have no problem causing a distraction and scurrying out with the pants. Or slipping under a Disappear-leaf and tucking them into his tail while the attendant remained none the wiser.

But those options weren’t available to him now.

‘Well, it’s not like I’m going to be coming back here anytime soon anyway,’ he thought wryly.

With a small sigh, he flipped his hand and smacked the coins onto the counter. The clinking sound echoed sharp against the polished wood as they scattered, some tumbling to the floor with even louder clatters.

The noise startled the attendant. Fuku didn’t wait—his hand darted like lightning, the jeans vanishing from the counter as he spun for the door. “Sorry ’bout this, but I’m in a hurry,” he blurted—his self-important accent slipping back into his natural cadence.

Before the attendant could react, he was already at the door, shoving it open wide. He threw them an apologetic shrug, then bounded out into the street—pants in one hand, the bag from the grocer in the other.

“Hey! Wait! You can’t just—!” The deep, raspy voice faded behind him as Fuku sprinted away.