The Fox And The Last Dragon

Kane salvaged what he could—a few shirts that weren't slashed, pants that had escaped the vandals' attention, and his prized game console still miraculously intact beneath the overturned coffee table.

"At least they left something worth saving," he muttered, carefully wrapping the console in a t-shirt before placing it in his duffel bag.

He zipped up the meager collection, glancing around one last time at the wreckage of his home.

This place was his sanctuary. A crappy one—but his. Now it was just another scene from someone else's case file.

Cyrus waited by the door, expression unreadable.

They descended the stairs in silence, the weight of unspoken suspicions hanging between them.

Once inside the Bentley, Cyrus started the engine without comment, his profile carved from stone as they pulled away from the curb.

"Sorry for taking so long." Kane's fingers drummed against his duffel bag.

"Not exactly how I planned to spend the afternoon, sorting through the remains of my life." He glanced sideways at Cyrus's impassive profile.

"So... where exactly are we headed?"

Cyrus merely nodded, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

His knuckles whitened slightly against the steering wheel—the only indication he'd heard Kane at all.

The Bentley glided through afternoon traffic with supernatural ease.

Kane expected them to turn toward the towering silhouette of Veyr Corp or back to Cyrus's penthouse.

Instead, they veered downtown, the cityscape transforming from residential blocks to gleaming high-rises.

They pulled into a circular drive beneath a massive glass-and-marble structure.

Golden light spilled from its entrance, illuminating the parade of luxury vehicles dropping off impeccably dressed patrons.

"The Quadron Mall?" Kane's jaw slackened.

"You brought me to the most exclusive shopping center in the city?"

Before them rose six stories of designer boutiques, restaurants that required reservations months in advance, and stores where items had no visible price tags—because if you needed to ask, you couldn't afford it.

Kane turned to Cyrus, bewilderment plain on his face.

"What are we doing here?"

Cyrus stepped from the car, not bothering to explain.

He strode through the mall's grand entrance with the confidence of someone who belonged, while Kane trailed behind like a stray fox.

Cyrus stopped before a boutique with minimalist décor and clothing displayed like museum artifacts.

"Mr. Drakhal!" A sleek attendant materialized instantly.

"What an unexpected pleasure."

Cyrus nodded toward Kane.

"My associate needs a complete wardrobe. Everything—suits, shirts, accessories. The works."

Two more attendants appeared, circling Kane with measuring tapes and appreciative murmurs.

"Wait—hold on." Kane backed away, bumping into a mannequin wearing a suit that probably cost more than his rent.

"I can't afford any of this."

The attendants froze, exchanging glances.

Cyrus's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes—annoyance, perhaps, or something less readable.

He pulled a matte black card from his inner pocket and handed it to the lead attendant with the casual air of someone passing a business card.

"Put everything on this."

His gaze swept over Kane's duffel bag with unveiled distaste.

"Those scraps of fabric you salvaged from your apartment are embarrassing. I won't have you trailing behind me looking like something dragged in from the alley."

"Hey, those 'scraps' were perfectly—" Another attendant interrupted Kane, removing his duffel bag and holding it between his thumb and forefinger as if it were contagious.

"I have a meeting call in five minutes." Cyrus checked his watch.

"I wish not to be disturbed. Have him properly outfitted by the time I return."

Kane's mouth opened, protest forming on his lips, but the attendants descended upon him like elegant vultures.

"Mr. Drakhal has excellent taste in associates," purred a tall woman with silver-streaked hair, steering Kane toward a private fitting area.

"We'll ensure you reflect that standard."

Another attendant began rattling off fabric options.

Kane threw one last desperate look toward Cyrus, who had settled into a leather chair, attention already fixed on his phone.

Within moments, Kane found himself transformed into a living mannequin as the attendants measured, pinned, and draped fabrics across his shoulders.

Suits in charcoal, navy, and black materialized.

Shirts in crisp whites and subtle patterns appeared.

Even underwear—obscenely expensive by the feel of the fabric—was selected without his input.

"I don't need all this," he protested as a third attendant presented a selection of silver watches.

The silver-haired woman smiled indulgently but ignored him.

"Look, these suits are...nice," Kane said, eyeing the small mountain of tailored clothing accumulating on a nearby rack.

"But do you have anything, you know, normal? T-shirts? Jeans? Something I could wear to grab coffee without feeling like I'm attending a royal wedding?"

The attendants exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between them.

"Of course, sir," the silver-haired woman nodded with sudden understanding. "Leisurewear. How thoughtless of us."

She disappeared with a graceful turn, returning moments later with an armful of cashmere sweaters, silk-blend joggers, and what appeared to be the most expensive hoodies Kane had ever seen.

Another attendant followed with linen loungewear, Italian leather house slippers, and pajama sets that looked softer than clouds.

"For your casual moments," she explained.

Kane stared at the "casual" collection in disbelief. These weren't normal clothes—they were what billionaires wore while pretending to be normal.

An hour later, Kane stood before a three-way mirror, barely recognizing himself.

The tailored suit fit perfectly, emphasizing his lean, muscular frame.

His reflection looked like someone who belonged in Cyrus's world—polished, expensive, untouchable.

He tugged at the collar, uncomfortable with how comfortable it felt.

The transformation was complete. Kane adjusted his cufflinks—actual cufflinks—and tried not to think about how much they probably cost.

The silver-haired woman stepped back, admiring her handiwork with a satisfied nod.

"Mr. Drakhal will be pleased," she said, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from his shoulder.

Kane caught sight of Cyrus's reflection in the mirror, watching him with an unreadable expression.

Their eyes met, and something electric passed between them through the karmic bond—a strange mixture of approval and wariness.

"Acceptable," Cyrus said, approaching with measured steps. "Have everything delivered to my penthouse."

The attendant bowed slightly. "Of course, Mr. Drakhal."

Kane turned to face Cyrus directly, finding his voice at last. "This is too much."

"It's necessary," Cyrus replied, his tone brooking no argument.

"Your appearance reflects on me now."

Several assistants bustled around them, boxing Kane's old clothes and organizing multiple garment bags.

Kane opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. The dragon had a point, even if he hated to admit it.