Zephyr stepped out of the Administration Hall looking nothing like the scruffy soul that had walked in earlier.
Now, he wore long black pants—tailored clean, but not rigid—ending in three deliberate folds that crumpled neatly atop his shoes. The shoes themselves were black with silver soles, sleek but painlessly small. The laces, too short to do a proper knot, were stopped midway and secured by a sleek strap that clipped across the tongue. It wasn't perfect, but it worked.
His top remained the same as Oliver's— a short-sleeved silver shirt that was paired with a black cardigan, its hem brushing just above his hips, and stitched neatly on the left side of his chest was the symbol of the Maw—a jagged emblem shaped like the open mouth of something ancient, endless, and hungry. A black tie hung from his neck, slightly loosened, caught somewhere between formal and "I don't care."
