Chapter 13: Equal
In a quieter part of the high-end district, Terrence stopped before a modest storefront and looked up at the signage: "Vin’s Tailoring Shop."
It was an average shop, far less flashy than the surrounding luxury boutiques, but Terrence couldn’t care less as he pushed through the glass door.
The clear chime of a bell rang above him.
As soon as he stepped inside, he was greeted by a young attendant.
She seemed to be an intern considering how awkward and shy her posture was, but her pleasing, youthful face radiated warmth. A colorful mixture of fabric strips hung over her left shoulder.
"Welcome, sir," she said with a gentle bow.
Terrence’s eyebrows lifted slightly. For the first time all day, he wasn’t greeted with immediate disdain.
Her tone held genuine politeness, as if she were trained to treat every customer with dignity regardless of how ragged they looked.
Feeling his mood lighten, Terrence took a moment to look around.
The shop was impeccably organized.
Casual wear and formal attires lined the racks on his left, while sleek tactical gear intended for combat rested along the right wall. A few odd, fashionable pieces he couldn’t identify hung in display cases between them.
Normally, visitors clad in everyday clothes wandered to the left, but Terrence walked straight toward the right.
"Do you have a specific preference in mind, sir?" the intern asked, stepping softly behind him.
Terrence nodded, glancing down at his torn jacket.
"I want subtle, reliable tactical gear. Something light that doesn’t scream ’armor,’ but can still decently protect me."
"I understand," the intern replied, her eyes brightening with focus. "If you don’t mind, I can assemble a combination for you."
She moved deftly between the racks, picking out pieces with practiced care.
Moments later, she presented a set: a dark indigo inner lining made of reinforced woven spider-silk, a lightweight obsidian-hued jacket fitted with hidden shock-absorbent plates, and matching flexible trousers capable of dampening kinetic impacts. It was sleek, subtle, and exceptionally well-made.
Terrence ran a hand over the material, feeling the cool, high-density weave under his fingers. A quiet sense of appreciation settled in his chest. It was a stark upgrade from the dusty rags he was wearing—practical, lightweight, and completely unpretentious.
He was just about to hand it back to her with an approving nod when the peaceful atmosphere shattered.
"You really expect those rags to protect you? If you want protection, you go to an armor shop, not a fashion tailor."
A sharp, mocking voice cut through the quiet air of the shop.
Terrence turned his head toward the interruption. Standing near the entrance was a young man leaning against a display case.
He had an average build, an average face, and an awful, aggressively average presence, yet his eyes burned with condescension as he eyed Terrence’s dusty clothes.
"Well," the customer sneered, crossing his arms, "what else would we expect from a literal beggar wandering off the street?"
Terrence didn’t like the insult, but he couldn’t deny his current appearance looked terrible. Anyone passing by would assume he was broke.
However, Terrence was no beggar, and he had plenty of money.
Deciding to ignore the pest, Terrence turned back to the intern with a calm nod. "I’ll buy it."
"Buy it? Can you even afford the thread?" the voice snapped louder, interrupting again.
Terrence exhaled slowly, his patience wearing razor-thin.
Ever since he entered the commercial district, he had dealt with non-stop ridicule from arrogant fools. He really didn’t want to waste more energy fighting.
He looked the customer dead in the eye. "Why do you care so much? I’ll buy whatever I want."
The guy scoffed, stepping closer with a disgusted expression.
"Wow... acting like you actually have money? Look at yourself."
Rather than argue, Terrence reached into his inner pocket, pulled out his glossy Black Card, and handed it directly to the intern.
The intern’s eyes widened in sheer shock. She instantly recognized the black card—the kind issued only to elite clients holding millions of credits.
The pompous customer stared at the card, his face twisting into disbelief before melting into deep disdain.
"Are you serious?" the customer snickered, shaking his head.
"You brought a fake plastic card to put on a show? That is genuinely disgusting. But you know what’s even more disgusting? Breathing the same air as a penniless fraud."
A cold grin spread across Terrence’s face. He was done being polite.
"Hey," Terrence said, pointing casually toward the left side of the shop.
"Ring up those high-end casual and formal attires over there too. All of them in my size. Charge it to my card right in front of this nobody."
The customer barked out a laugh. "A nobody? You think that fake card will actually pass the scanner? Of course it won’t—!"
DING!
"Transaction successful, sir," the intern announced softly, placing the terminal down as the receipt printed out smoothly.
"A total of two hundred thousand credits has been processed."
The customer’s words choked violently in his throat. His mouth hung open, his face flushing a deep, humiliated shade of purple as the green light on the card scanner flashed brightly in his eyes.
Without uttering another single word, the man spun around on his heel, pushed open the glass doors, and practically sprinted out of the tailoring shop, vanishing into the crowded street.
The bell above the entrance jingled softly as the door slammed shut, leaving a sudden, heavy silence in its wake.
A few other shoppers who had been quietly browsing the racks turned their heads, their eyes fixed firmly on Terrence.
Whispers broke out among them as they stared at his dusty, worn-out jacket and faded trousers, then at the glowing black card sitting on the counter.
’Who on earth is that guy?’ a wealthy woman in a silk dress thought, squinting in sheer bewilderment.
’He looks like he just crawled out of a dumpster, yet he drops hundreds of thousands of credits without blinking?’
’Is he an eccentric high-rank tamer hiding his identity?’ another customer wondered silently, keeping a respectful distance.
’Or maybe a young master from a hidden clan playing homeless?’
Terrence ignored the lingering stares completely. He let out a long sigh of relief, cracking his neck as the tension in his shoulders melted away.
"What was his problem?" Terrence asked, shaking his head. "Was he just that frustrated with the world?"
The intern smiled shyly, carefully packing his new tactical gear and luxury clothes into premium travel bags. "Some people just look down on others to feel bigger, sir."
Terrence looked at her, appreciating her calm professionalism. "If you don’t mind me asking... why did you treat me like a normal customer from the moment I walked in? Most people here tried to throw me out."
The intern placed the finished bags neatly on the counter and looked at him with gentle, clear eyes.
"My master taught me that everyone deserves good clothing," she said softly. "At the end of the day, everyone is equal—even without clothes."