The mirror gave Hajin a perfect view of the collar that spent all afternoon trying to strangle him.
He hooked two fingers under the fabric while the buckle beneath it fought off yet another clumsy adjustment by hand. The tailor swore the fit suited a formal gathering, apparently forgetting about the shoulders that needed to survive attending it.
"Who designs a shirt like this?" he wheezed, yanking at the collar, "who looks at a neck and thinks, yes, choke that?"
He tested one tiny shrug, and the seams bit back harder than the boar in the forest ever managed.
He eased the cuff around his wrist with a hiss, "At least the boar died when I objected, this damn thing keeps finding new arguments."
Juna turned from her own reflection, and her face offered zero defense of the tailoring profession.
"Mine has teeth in the lining."
"Teeth?"
"Teeth," she grumbled, reaching carefully between her shoulders, "I feel them every time I try to stand properly."
