But oh, they had.
Someone, probably Hanna, possibly the gods, had reorganized his entire wardrobe while he wasn't looking.
Half the drawers had plaques engraved with his name now, as if that made it better:
CHRISTOPHER MALEK — ROYAL CONSORT WARDROBE.
He stared at the label like it personally offended him.
"This is treason," he muttered.
He yanked open another drawer. More robes. Even fancier than before, the gold embroidery was so detailed it looked alive under the lights. Another drawer. More silk. More gold.
He shut it fast, like it might bite him.
"This is not normal," he told the air. "This is not a healthy working environment."
He tried the storage trunk near the mirror, praying for something familiar, jeans, shirts, or even a plain black sweater. He'd have worn a potato sack at this point.
But no.
Inside were shoes. Dax's shoes. Lined up by height, shine, and what Chris suspected was the phase of the moon.
