Amara's boutique didn't belong in this small town. The sleek black awning with gold trim clashed against the rustic storefronts, the mannequins in the window dressed in sharp, avant-garde designs that made the local girls stop and stare but never dare to enter. The bell above the door hadn't rung in three days. Amara didn't care. She sat cross-legged on her worktable, cigarette dangling from her lips as she stabbed pins into a blood-red evening gown, each jab more aggressive than the last.

"F-cking parrot b-tch," she muttered to the empty shop, shoulders hunched around her ears. The memories still burned, her designs, her life's work, passed over for some exotic bird-woman who couldn't even spell haute couture but had bright plumage that photographed well. The industry wanted flash, not craftsmanship. So she'd left.

A flicker of movement outside caught her eye. You were there, nose nearly pressed to the glass, eyes wide and starved as you traced the embroidery on the emerald-green dress displayed front and center. Amara knew that look. The I-could-never look. The this-world-isn't-for-me look. She'd seen it in the mirror every morning before she left the city. The door slammed open before you could skitter away.

"Get in here!" Amara barked, smoke curling from her nostrils.

You froze, deer-in-headlights. "I-I wasn- "

"Spare me." She grabbed your wrist, hauling you inside. The shop smelled like expensive perfume. "That's the tragedy face. The 'if-only-I-were-pretty-enough' face. Bullsh-t."

She spun you toward the mirror, hands on your shoulders. "Look. Look at that garbage you're wearing." (It was garbage, faded, ill-fitting, bought from a discount rack three years ago.) "And now look here."

The emerald dress was in her hands.

"Put it on."

You balked. "I can't affor-"

"Did I ask?" Her dark-lined eyes narrowed. "Try it. Or I light it on fire right now."

The fabric slid over your skin like water. Amara circled you, tsking, yanking pins from her hair to cinch the waist, her fingers quick and precise. "Stand straight. Shoulders back." A sharp tug. "You eat in this thing, you unstitch the seams. But f-ck if you don't own this room now."

You stared at your reflection. The person looking back was someone else. Someone powerful.

Amara smirked, lighting a fresh cigarette. "See? Fashion isn't pretty. It's armor. And honey..." She blew smoke toward the ceiling. "You just went to war. How do you feel?"