The following morning, Max was preparing for his meeting with Warma. For once, he felt relief in not having to button himself into a stiff suit. During his White Tiger days, smart clothing had been a necessity, part of the image of authority and discipline he was forced to project. Now, in the borrowed youth of his new body, he wanted freedom. He wanted to breathe.
Opening Aron's massive wardrobe, however, only reminded him of the man's obsession with uniformity. Row upon row of identical suits, black, pressed, and unyielding, lined the racks like soldiers waiting for inspection. Not a single casual piece among them.
Max frowned. "Does this man even own a T-shirt?" he muttered.
From his own smaller collection of belongings, he pulled out a clean tracksuit. It wasn't flashy, just comfortable, but wearing it made him feel like himself again. A far cry from the suffocating collars and polished shoes of a world that constantly judged.
