Chapter 4: The Costume Fitting
The boutique was called Obsequium. The word was etched in frosted glass above the black-lacquered doors, which slid open without a sound, revealing a throat of shadow and velvet. The air inside was a calculated assault—a humid blend of expensive oil, tanned leather, and something ozonic, like the smell after lightning strikes a wet pavement. It hummed, a sub-audible vibration that made Bakugou’s teeth ache.
Shinsou stepped in first, his posture relaxing into an easy arrogance that made Bakugou’s skin crawl. He looked like he belonged here.
“Master Katsuragi’s compliments,” Shinsou said to the empty room, his voice smooth. “He said you’d be expecting us.”
From behind a floor-to-ceiling drape of charcoal grey silk, a man emerged. He was slight, dressed in a impeccably tailored suit the color of a bruise. His hair was silver, cropped close, and his eyes were magnified behind thick, round spectacles. They scanned Bakugou with a dispassionate, appraising curiosity that felt more invasive than any physical touch.
“Indeed. I am Silas. Your measurements are on file, Mr. Shinsou. A simple adjustment for the evening’s attire.” The tailor’s voice was soft, almost whispery. He turned his gaze fully to Bakugou. “For the explosive hero, however… a blank canvas. Master Katsuragi was quite specific. The attire must reflect the dynamic. It must speak before you do.”
Bakugou crossed his arms. “Just give me a damn suit. Black. Doesn’t need to sing a fucking opera.”
Silas smiled, a thin stretching of lips. “Oh, but it does. This way, please.”
He led them past displays that were more like art installations. A mannequin sheathed in intricately knotted black rope. Another wearing a harness of polished steel that looked both brutal and elegant. They weren’t costumes. They were statements. Bakugou felt a flush creep up his neck. This was worse than the Obsidian Club. This was the quiet, expensive room where the fantasy got tailored to fit.
A central platform, lit by three pinpoint spotlights, dominated the back room. A full-length mirror, framed in dark steel, reflected the empty space with cruel clarity.
“For you, Pro Hero Bakugou,” Silas said, gesturing to the platform. “Remove your street clothes, if you please. To the underwear. I must understand the foundation.”
Bakugou shot a look at Shinsou, who had settled into a low velvet armchair in the shadows, one ankle resting on his knee. He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. This is the mission.
Swallowing the acid in his throat, Bakugou toed off his shoes, stripped off his shirt and jeans. The air was cool on his skin. He stood on the platform in his black boxer-briefs, fists clenched at his sides, staring at his own defiant reflection so he wouldn’t have to see Shinsou watching.
Silas approached with a soft leather tape measure. His touch was clinical, precise, but everywhere. Across the shoulders. The circumference of the bicep. The taper of the waist. He called out numbers to an assistant who tapped them silently into a tablet. “Chest: forty-three inches. Inhale, please. Hold. Good.”
Then he crouched. The measure wrapped around Bakugou’s thigh, high up near the inseam. Bakugou flinched.
“Steady,” Silas murmured, his breath a cool puff against Bakugou’s knee. “The fit must be perfect. Any restriction would be a distraction.” He noted the number. Then, without preamble, he tapped Bakugou’s ankle. “A wider stance, please. I need the hip measurement in a natural, relaxed posture.”
It wasn’t natural. It wasn’t relaxed. It was a pose of readiness, of exposure. Bakugou complied, his jaw so tight he thought a tooth might crack.
“Very good,” Silas said, his tone devoid of any inflection that could be mistaken for admiration. It was pure analysis. He stood, circling. “Turn to the side, please. Arms slightly away from the body. Let me see the line of the back.”
Bakugou turned, facing the mirror now at a three-quarter angle. In its reflection, he could see Shinsou in the armchair, a dark silhouette. He was perfectly still, his violet eyes fixed on Bakugou, unblinking. There was no comfort there. No shared smirk. Just observation. Assessment. Bakugou felt like a specimen under glass, every muscle, every scar, every heartbeat catalogued for the purpose of someone else’s entertainment.
“The character you are to portray is one of… acquired ownership,” Silas said, as if lecturing. He skated a finger down the air an inch from Bakugou’s spine, making the hairs there rise. “The clothing cannot hide your power. It must contradict it. The tension is the message. The fabric will embrace you like a consent you never verbally gave.”
“Get on with it,” Bakugou ground out.
“Of course. On your knees, please.”
The words hung in the perfumed air. Bakugou didn’t move. He stared at his own wide, furious eyes in the mirror.
“The garments for the evening will incorporate elements of restraint,” Silas continued, unfazed. “I need to measure the neck, the slope of the shoulders from this angle, the proportion of the torso to the floor. It is merely geometry.”
From the shadows, Shinsou spoke, his voice a low, calm ripple. “You heard him, Katsu. It’s just geometry.”
The use of the shortened name—the one from the club, the one that tasted like possession—was the final shove. Bakugou’s pride, a roaring inferno, met the cold, dousing reality of the mission. He saw Kirishima’s resigned face in the gym. You make them believe you want him more than you’ve ever wanted anything.
Slowly, every movement screaming internal protest, Bakugou lowered himself to his knees on the hard, cool platform. The posture was abject. Vulnerable. He kept his head up, back straight, a statue of forced submission.
“Excellent,” Silas breathed. He moved in, his measuring tape a cold snake around Bakugou’s throat. He noted the circumference. He measured from the base of the throat to the shoulder, from the shoulder to the floor. His movements were swift, efficient. “Master Katsuragi will be pleased. The visual will be… potent.”
Throughout it all, Shinsou watched. Bakugou, in his periphery, saw the faint tightening of his knuckles where they rested on the armchair. That was all. A single crack in the stone façade.
Finally, it was over. “You may dress. The garments will be delivered to the villa by six this evening.” Silas said, already turning away, his interest spent now that his data was collected.
Bakugou rose, his muscles stiff. He snatched his clothes and pulled them on with sharp, violent motions, not caring about the wrinkles. He didn’t look at Shinsou. He couldn’t.
They left the boutique in silence. The afternoon sun outside was jarring, too bright, too normal. They walked half a block before Bakugou slammed a palm into the brick wall of an alley, the blast suppressed to a dull, concussive thump that shook dust from the mortar.
“’Just geometry,’” he snarled, imitating Shinsou’s flat tone. He turned, his chest heaving. “You just sat there.”
“What would you have had me do?” Shinsou asked, his hands in his pockets. His face was unreadable again. “Hold your hand? Tell him it was okay? That would have broken character more completely than anything you did in there.”
“He made me get on my knees.”
“I know.”
“And you let him.”
“I used him,” Shinsou corrected, his voice dropping. He took a step closer, entering the alley’s shadow. “Every humiliation he inflicted, every measured inch, is a brick in our cover story. Silas will report every detail to Katsuragi. Your compliance. My detached observation. He’ll describe the exact shade of red on your neck when you knelt. That report is what gets us through the door tonight, past the guards, and into the rooms where they keep their real records. Not the decoy ledgers. The real ones.”
Bakugou was breathing hard, the anger with no clean target curdling into something sour and sick inside him. “It doesn’t feel like using. It feels like losing.”
Shinsou was quiet for a long moment. The sounds of the distant city filtered into the alley. “Kirishima’s going to be there tonight,” he said, changing the subject with a brutal practicality. “Seeing you in whatever Silas concocts. Seeing you play your part with me. He agreed to it, but seeing it is different. You need to be ready for that, too.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Bakugou pushed off the wall, heading for the street, needing to move. “You think any of this is news to me? I’m not the one who needs everything spelled out like a fucking tactical diagram.”
“Maybe you do,” Shinsou said, falling into step beside him, his pace unhurried. “Because when we’re in there, and he’s watching, and every villain in the room is feeding on the tension, you can’t afford to question the geometry. The second you do, we’re all dead. So yeah. I sat there. And I’ll sit there tonight. And you’ll perform. That’s the job.”
They walked the rest of the way to the safe house in a charged, brittle silence. The kind that wasn’t empty, but filled with every unspoken, ugly thing they were about to do. The delivered garments hung in the closet in black garment bags, ominous in their silence. Bakugou hadn’t opened his. He didn’t want to see what Silas’s “geometry” looked like made real.
Shinsou stood by the window, watching the light change. “We leave in two hours,” he said, his back to the room. “Get some rest if you can.”
Bakugou didn’t answer. He was already staring at the closed closet door, feeling the ghost of the tape measure around his throat, and the heavier, colder weight of the eyes that had watched it happen.