The sunglasses are the first thing to go.
"We're thinking something sleeker," the stylist says, holding up a thinner pair. "Less mysterious. More approachable."
Approachable.
He rolls the word around in his head.
His old sunglasses sit on the counter beside him.
Dark lenses.
Slight scratch on the left edge.
A habit.
He reaches for them automatically.
She gently intercepts.
"Try these."
He does.
The new pair sits lighter on his face.
Sharper frame.
Clearer tint.
He looks less like a storm.
More like a campaign.
"Much better," she says.
He smiles easily.
"Sure."
The wardrobe follows.
Racks brought in.
Measured tailoring.
Neutral palettes.
Gone are the layered chains.
The worn leather.
The rough textures.
In their place:
Structured coats.
Fitted shirts.
Minimalist lines.
"You're entering a different tier," someone says.
Tier.
He nods again.
He's good at nodding.
They move to hair.
"Just a trim," the stylist says lightly. "Nothing drastic. Clean it up."
Clean it up.
He watches strands fall onto the black cape draped over him.
Small pieces of familiarity.
Gone.
When she's done, his reflection looks sharper.
Professional.
Marketable.
He runs a hand through it.
It doesn't fall the same way.
He tells himself that's fine.
The social media team comes next.
Three people.
One laptop.
A curated feed projected onto a screen.
"We're adjusting your tone," the manager explains.
"Less detached humor. More aspirational messaging."
Aspirational.
He scrolls through draft captions.
Quotes about growth.
Vision.
Legacy.
He used to post at 2am.
Unfiltered.
Offbeat.
Sharp.
Now there's a calendar.
Scheduled posts.
Strategic engagement windows.
Approved language.
"Consistency builds brand trust," someone says.
Trust.
He almost laughs.
Instead he leans back in his chair.
"Do what you need," he says casually.
They smile.
Relieved.
By late afternoon, he's dressed in the new look.
Tailored coat.
New sunglasses.
Hair slightly tighter at the sides.
He stands alone in the penthouse bathroom.
The light is unforgiving.
White.
Bright.
Honest.
He studies the reflection.
It's still him.
Same eyes.
Same mouth.
Same posture.
Just refined.
Elevated.
He tilts his head slightly.
The version in the mirror tilts back.
Zane Calder.
Clean.
Controlled.
Optimized.
He lets out a quiet laugh.
"Guess I made it," he mutters.
The laugh echoes faintly off marble.
He doesn't know why it feels hollow.
His phone buzzes.
Sunny sent a photo.
Amelia forcing her into a ridiculous filter.
Bright pink hearts floating around her head.
Caption:
Do I look like a pop star yet?
He smiles immediately.
Types:
Not enough sunglasses.
Sends.
She replies:
Rude.
He can almost hear her voice in it.
Unfiltered.
Warm.
Uncurated.
He looks back at his reflection.
The sunglasses on his face now look thinner.
More transparent.
He takes them off.
Studies his bare reflection.
There's something slightly unfamiliar in the way he holds himself.
More guarded.
More aware.
He sets the new sunglasses down.
Reaches for the old pair on the counter.
Holds them in his hand for a moment.
Then puts them back.
Slowly.
He tells himself it's just evolution.
Just growth.
Just the cost of bigger rooms.
He laughs again, softer this time.
"Relax," he says to the mirror.
"You're still you."
But when he walks away—
He doesn't glance back.