Inside the shop, the air was warm, a stark contrast to the cold bite of the outside district. It carried the rich scent of fresh fabric and polished wood, a silent testament to the shop's prestige. This was not merely a place for tailoring; it was a workshop of craftsmanship, where the very threads of identity and purpose were woven into something tangible.

The low hum of murmured conversations filled the space, blending with the rhythmic rustling of fabric as skilled hands worked their magic. Customers moved about, their discussions barely rising above a whisper, while shop workers diligently attended to their needs. Nyxander's gaze swept across the shop's interior, his sharp eyes flickering from one elegantly displayed battle suit to another. The weight of leadership settled upon his shoulders, pressing down like an invisible mantle. Every choice he made here would define more than just appearance, it would forge an emblem of unity and strength for his team.

Beorn moved ahead, guiding him deeper into the shop's maze-like interior. The hanging fabrics acted as walls, shifting like silent sentinels as Beorn pushed them aside to carve a path forward. The deeper they went, the quieter the air became, as though stepping into a sanctum where choices were made, not just garments.

At last, they approached a thick cotton curtain, from behind which hushed voices could be heard. Beorn raised his left hand, gripping the fabric and sweeping it aside. Beyond it, Lumina stood across from an older man, his posture firm despite the years that lined his face. The moment the curtain parted, both Lumina and the old man turned toward them, their conversation abruptly cut short.

Beorn stepped in first, and Nyxander followed. The room felt smaller now, charged with a tension that was almost palpable. "I have brought him as instructed," Beorn announced, his voice carrying a note of finality.

At those words, Lumina and Nyxander's gazes locked. In that instant, the air between them seemed to thicken, filled with an unspoken energy that neither dared acknowledge. Their heartbeats quickened, pounding loud enough that it felt as though the very walls of the room could hear them.

Sweat trickled from beneath Nyxander's dark hair, sliding down the right side of his face before trailing along his jawline. Swallowing down the sudden dryness in his throat, he lifted his right hand to shoulder level, attempting to break the silence. "Hi..."

Before he could finish, Lumina cut him off, her tone crisp and controlled. "This is Mr. Gumi," she said, turning slightly towards the old man. "He oversees the creation of our Astro battle suits and will be designing your team's as well." Without another glance in Nyxander's direction, she continued addressing the older tailor. "He's the one we've been waiting for."

Mr. Gumi gave Nyxander a knowing smile, his eyes twinkling with the wisdom of years. "Ah, young man, you've kept this lovely lady busy for the past three days, having her pore over the materials brought back from headquarters." His voice carried a playful undertone, but there was a hint of something else, curiosity, perhaps.

Nyxander inhaled sharply, shifting his gaze toward Lumina. "Sorry for keeping you occupied with my affairs," he said, his voice laced with a sincerity that he wasn't sure she would accept. But Lumina's cold, unreadable expression didn't waver. Her tone remained detached, as though she were speaking about a simple transaction rather than his absence.

"You don't have to feel sorry," she replied flatly. "This is my assigned duty. I'm simply ensuring that I perform it properly." Nyxander exhaled heavily, rubbing the back of his neck as a faint sigh escaped his lips. An invisible wall stood between them, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to cross it.

Beorn and Mr. Gumi, who had been silently watching the exchange unfold, exchanged a look of intrigue. The old tailor leaned slightly toward Beorn, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "What's the story between those two?" Beorn, scratching his chin, muttered back, "Honestly? I can't even begin to explain it."

Their conversation was cut short when they both felt the weight of two pairs of sharp eyes on them. Slowly, they turned forward, only to find Nyxander and Lumina staring at them, Nyxander's gaze filled with quiet exasperation, Lumina's with icy indifference. Mr. Gumi cleared his throat loudly, taking a hasty step forward. "Well, now that he's here, my part in this discussion is done."

Lumina gave a slight nod, her posture stiff but composed. "Since my task is also complete, I'll take my leave." Her words were final, a closed door, leaving no room for further discussion. She turned toward the exit, where Nyxander stood in her path, his form tense, his expression unreadable. As she approached, her pace didn't falter, nor did she hesitate for even a second.

"Lum..." But she didn't slow down. Without sparing him another glance, she reached for the cotton curtain, shifted it aside, and stepped through it, disappearing into the shop beyond. It was as if the tension she left behind meant nothing to her, like a storm passing through without care for the wreckage in its wake.

Nyxander turned after her, watching as the curtain swayed from her departure, the fabric still trembling from her touch. His gaze lingered, fixed on that single spot, as though willing time to rewind, to find the words he hadn't spoken. But the moment had passed. And all that remained was the fading echo of her absence.

"I think she's gone," Mr. Gumi's voice drifted from behind, snapping Nyxander back to the present. His eyes, still fixed on the swaying curtain, blinked as though waking from a trance. "Ye… yes," he murmured, finally turning back toward the older man. His posture straightened, masking the lingering tension in his chest. "Let's begin."

"Alright," Mr. Gumi responded with a knowing nod before stepping toward a polished brown chest, its surface gleaming under the warm daylight ray from the window. He reached down, fingers brushing against the well-worn lid before pushing it open with a faint creak. A musty scent of preserved leather mingled with the air, a whisper of its powerful origins.

Dipping his hands into the chest, Mr. Gumi gripped a massive roll of grey leather, its texture rough yet undeniably sturdy, the kind of material forged in time, built for warriors. As he struggled slightly to hoist it from its resting place, the leather unfurled like a fallen banner, landing on the wooden floor with a muffled thud.

"This," he said, patting the thick material, "is the leather provided for your team's suits, primordial skin, harvested and refined with the endurance of battle in mind." His aged eyes met Nyxander's, keen with expectation. "Now, tell me, what design do you have in mind?"

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Mr. Gumi, ever perceptive, tilted his head slightly, noticing how Nyxander's gaze had drifted, not at the leather, but at the space beyond it. The ghost of Lumina's departure still clung to him, like a chain of unspoken words wrapped around his mind.

Clearing his throat, Mr. Gumi's voice anchored him back. "Oh, yeah," Nyxander muttered, shaking off the haze of thoughts clouding him. "I need something to sketch the design on."

Within moments, an ink pen and parchment were placed before him. Taking the pen, Nyxander's fingers curled around it, his grip tightening slightly as he began to sketch. His strokes were precise, yet filled with silent purpose, this wasn't just about armor; it was about identity, about the mark his team would leave upon this world.

Several discussions followed. Adjustments were made, lines refined, proportions calculated with an unyielding attention to detail. Each measurement accounted for, each curve and seam holding weight beyond mere aesthetics, it was about function, resilience, and representation. Mr. Gumi listened carefully, taking down notes with the patience of a seasoned craftsman. This was not just tailoring; it was forging the visual essence of a team.

As time slipped by, the final details were settled. "That's all," Mr. Gumi said at last, setting down his notes. "Alright, thank you," Nyxander replied, rolling up the sketch. "We'll be taking our leave now, so we don't disrupt your work any further."

He turned toward Beorn, who had been sitting quietly near the curtain, his arms crossed, observing the entire exchange with the patience of someone used to waiting. Their gazes met, a silent understanding passing between them. With a subtle nod, Nyxander signaled that it was time to go.

Beorn pushed himself up from his seat, stepping toward the exit. Just as Nyxander moved to follow, Mr. Gumi's voice caught him mid-step. "You've been distracted since she left," the old man observed, his tone edged with quiet wisdom. "I don't know what happened between you two, but…" He exhaled, rubbing his chin. "It's better for you to take responsibility for clearing up whatever misunderstanding exists."

Nyxander stilled, the weight of the words settling on his shoulders. His jaw clenched slightly, though not in defiance, more in thought.

After a beat, he gave the man a slight nod. "Thanks," he said, voice lower, more measured. Then, without another word, he stepped out, leaving the bright daylight ray of the workshop behind him, yet carrying the shadows of unsaid things with him.

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