Chapter 85: Mannequin of Flesh, Draped in Expectation
"What’s Pavlov?" Kiya asked, her brow scrunched in pure, unfiltered ignorance.
"Ah, don’t worry about it," I replied, waving off the question with a smirk. I guess space Russia didn’t make the cut on this galactic playlist. "Anyway, did Sophia say why you two were summoned upstairs like fashion goblins?"
Samantha opened her mouth to respond, all poise and readiness, before Kiya derailed the conversation like a caffeine-addled freight train.
"Yeah! Mother said you think your fashion sense is absolute dogshit, so we’re here to fix it!" she chirped, practically vibrating with glee.
"KAYLA!" Samantha hissed, scandalized, temporarily forgetting the devastating view of Irvine standing there in nothing but very revealing boxers — a sight that had kept her eyes firmly stapled to the floorboards for the past several minutes.
"What? Oh, no offense, Irvine," Kiya said with the careless sincerity of soone who genuinely believed that announcing an insult with enthusiasm made it harmless. She paused her jumping long enough to glance at .
I broke into a laugh, deep and involuntary. "Kayla, you are cute as fuck."
That only made her beam brighter.
"Don’t worry about it — my fashion sense is trash. Now let’s get changed before Samantha’s face calcifies into that shade of red and I’m stuck with a human tomato for the rest of the day."
Kiya imdiately latched onto my hand like a cheerful parasite and began dragging toward the stairs.
But just as we reached the living room, the shrill voice of professional decorum entered from behind.
"Lady Sophia? I’ve finished my shift and am taking my leave, shall I—"
Elias froze mid-sentence, his eyes drinking in the scene before him: Lady Sophia’s beloved pet project — that would be — being hauled upstairs by two giggling girls like so overgrown doll.
He didn’t say anything. Just stood there, rigid, jaw slightly ajar, like soone who walked into the wrong porno set.
"Elias!" Kiya squealed, bounding toward him like a labrador on espresso. "Irvine, have you tried Elias’s food yet? It’s sooo good! I swear I had a literal foodgasm once. Like, it was spiritual. Anyway, Elias, you got any leftovers stashed around here sowhere?"
She began rooting around him like a raccoon, checking invisible pockets for snack bags that didn’t exist.
I gave him a sympathetic look. "Hey, buddy. I’ll let Sophia know. She’s changing in my room and the doors are soundproof. Also—top-tier cooking, my guy. Respect." That snapped him out of his horror-movie freeze. He bowed quickly, like soone who had been caught peeing on an altar, and made a hasty retreat to the elevator.
"Alright, co on. Let’s get dressed before Kayla tries to rob the pantry again."
She was already pulling on my arm with renewed energy as we ascended the stairs. When we pushed open the door to my room, we were greeted by the spectacular view of Sophia bent over in nothing but her underwear — perfectly frad rear in the air, posture so graceful it could be hung in a museum.
"Wow, Mother, nice ass! I wish mine had that level of plump perfection," Kiya said with zero restraint and even less sha.
Sophia, completely unfazed, glanced back over her shoulder. "Ah, good. You’re here. Don’t take too long with him. We have forty-five minutes if we want to arrive on ti." She snatched the black dress that had been neatly folded on the bed, slipped on her shoes, and walked out as if mooning your son and his entourage was a regular Tuesday affair.
Now that the Supre General of the Household was gone, the girls went feral.
The next forty minutes were a fashion montage from hell. I was turned into a at mannequin, stuffed in and out of clothes faster than a child with a Barbie doll. Tunics, coats, drapey long things with too many buttons, and a poncho I swear belonged to a wizard on vacation. Every ti I stripped, I heard a noise — a little squeak, a hum, an oddly sensual sigh — but whenever I tried to pinpoint which of the two perverts was making it, they were as innocent as angels.
And then — with exactly five minutes left on the clock — they suddenly stopped, shared a single nod, and pulled out the perfect outfit like it had been waiting in the wings all along. Sadistic little goblins. They knew the whole ti.
They assembled the final look with ruthless efficiency: a tailored white jacket with sharp, black and gold accents, stitched in a way that made my shoulders look like I fought battles with words and swords. Attached to the coat were gleaming external shoulder pads — apparently all the rage among upper crust socialites who liked to cosplay as warlords.
Beneath the jacket: a crisp white dress shirt that hugged the body in all the flattering places. Around my neck: a black tie embossed with golden sigils that seed to shimr slightly when I moved. Was the thing enchanted? I made a ntal note to check for passive illusions later.
The pants were deceptively simple — black, elegant, and more comfortable than any dress pants had a right to be. And the shoes? Glossy, expensive, practically whispering "this man pays his taxes on ti."
I looked at myself in the mirror and cringed.
"This... is not . But I look damn good pretending," I muttered. "Thanks, girls. Though we could’ve skipped the whole hour of fashion torture, I suppose I’ll consider that my paynt to you for a job well done."
Descending the stairs like I was auditioning for so aristocratic opera, I found Sophia standing in front of what I now realized was a disguised ultra-wall-mounted television. It currently displayed the news, which ant sowhere out there was a journalist who probably got paid less than Elias.
Sophia turned as soon as she heard my footsteps. Her smile hit like a spell.
"Well, well. Don’t you look dangerously handso in that suit, my sweet."
"Oh? So I didn’t look handso last night?" I replied, feigning betrayal and sorrow.
Her expression went full panic-mode. "I—No, that’s not—"
"Relax," I interrupted with a grin. "I knew what you ant. And thank you. You look absolutely stunning as well."
She was wearing sheer black tights, a short skirt with military precision, and a white blouse that toed the line between classy and criminal. Her modest but delicious cleavage made forget what I was saying for half a second.
She blushed — actual, visible blush — then composed herself. "Enough sweet talk, or we’ll be late. Our transport’s waiting. Private company. Plenty of privacy for discussion."
Right. Showti.
But first — "Kimchi, are you going to be alright here for a bit?"
No reply. Sophia answered for without missing a beat. "Oh, she’s not here, darling. She’s currently inside my nest pod and I quote: ’sick of wearing these uncomfortable clothes.’ Apparently, she intends to rebuild her armor’s internal systems with a rotating clothing array."
"Oh, that’ll take her days," I murmured. "Her armor’s basically divine titanium spaghetti. Remolding it is a bitch."
Sophia just nodded. She already knew.
In the elevator, Sophia decided Samantha would accompany us as her "assistant" for the day — mostly to test her under fire, I assud. anwhile, Kiya would remain behind to "hold the fort," which probably ant throwing a dance party for herself and ransacking the fridge.
We exited into the daylight — zenith sun, heat like silk, and the gentle hum of a thousand background conversations. A modest crowd had gathered near the sidewalk, half out of curiosity, half because nothing else interesting was happening on a Tuesday afternoon.
Across the street: our ride. Black, sleek, tall enough to stand in, and hovering elegantly above the asphalt like a shark gliding just beneath the waves.
As we approached, the driver exited, walked around, and opened the door with polished efficiency.
"Good afternoon, Lady Sophia," he said with just enough fake reverence to annoy .
Sophia and Samantha stepped in, regal and quiet.
I followed — or tried to.
A hand landed on my shoulder.
"Where do you think you’re going, pissant?"
Oh, this fucker.
"Excuse ?" I said, all pretense of charm gone from my voice. I turned to him, locking eyes. Not flinching. Not blinking.
And then—
"Driver," Sophia said, her voice suddenly laced with psionic steel. "Get your hand off my lover if you value your life."
He went pale. The shift in tone — from goddess to executioner — made his soul hiccup.
He let go imdiately. "F-forgive , sir. I didn’t know— I was just—"
"Yeah, yeah. Doing your job. Pissant," I muttered, brushing past him and into the vehicle.
It lifted off as soon as the door shut.
As we rose over the cityscape, I stared out the window — one half horizon dominated by towers and neon comrce, the other side falling away into dust and grassland. Civilization clashing against nothing.
"Hey, Soph — why’d you build your club in the southern hemisphere? Most of your targets are northern elites, right?"
Sophia looked up from her datapad, blinking. "Ah. Well, north is more secure. More regulated. Constant sweeps and surveillance. My club would’ve been a liability. Here in the south? Fewer eyes. More freedom."
She gave a casual shrug. "Besides, we’re close enough to the equator that the rich can get here in thirty minutes. They feel safe, free, and reckless. Easier to drug them. Lowered defenses and all that."
She returned to her datapad like she hadn’t just admitted to subtly poisoning the interstellar elite.
The rest of the flight was quiet. Not awkward — just heavy. Sophia was clearly stewing over the driver incident, her brain spinning in hive-logic about social threats and disrespect.
I didn’t say anything. I knew better.
Instead, I stared out the window, watching the oceans pass beneath us — vast, glittering blue, ancient and uncaring. And for a mont, I rembered snorkelling as a kid. The feel of salt in my nose. The sting in my eyes. The quiet of being subrged in sothing bigger than myself.
A good mory. One of the few.
Eventually, the ocean gave way to sothing else: a city in concentric rings, glass towers blooming like flowers, green terraces and floating platforms spinning lazily overhead.
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