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On the eve of The Rock premiere, Charlize Theron, accompanied by Henry, was trying on the gown Cruella had prepared.
The dress was a form-fitting, backless green silk gown.
Its design was relatively restrained—not nearly as wild as Cruella's usual work. The most unconventional aspect was the color itself: green.
Back in the Victorian era, green dresses had once been fashionable among aristocratic ladies. But the dye used at the time contained highly toxic arsenic—better known as arsenic poison.
As a result, the wealthiest women chasing fashion often died the fastest. The more obsessed they were, the worse their fate.
For a long time afterward, green clothing became taboo—inevitably associated with women who died in pursuit of beauty.
Fortunately, the silk gown Charlize wore used no such dangerous dyes. If it did, Henry's Kryptonian nose would have detected it instantly.
Aside from its rebellious color—a signature Cruella touch—the design itself was fairly conventional.
Henry, however, looked surprised.
"Ms. de Vil, are you running out of inspiration? Couldn't come up with something more outrageous?"
Cruella immediately grabbed a feather duster and waved it around furiously.
"Running out of inspiration? Do you even hear yourself?!
"Charlize is attending a formal event! There are expectations to consider! Should she show up dressed like a peacock?!
"And if someone like Sean Connery thinks it's inappropriate, won't you two start complaining that my designs aren't good enough?!
"Designing according to the client's needs and the occasion—that's what professionalism looks like!
"I'm already enduring this boring work—what more do you want?!
"If you want attention so badly, go wear a swimsuit covered in rotting beef to the red carpet. I guarantee you'll make every headline tomorrow!"
---
Henry had said exactly one sentence.
And got buried under a full lecture.
He instinctively looked to Charlize for comfort—only to receive a deadly glare and a flick to the forehead.
Clutching his "injured" head, the Kryptonian retreated to the wall, sulking.
---
Still, watching the room bustle with activity… felt strangely satisfying.
It wasn't about slacking off while others worked.
It was like watching art being created.
A group of people carefully refining a girl's appearance—taking something already beautiful and elevating it to something stunning.
Like watching a sculpture emerge from stone.
From ordinary… to extraordinary.
Seeing the whole process unfold—who wouldn't find that interesting?
And transforming someone already beautiful into something breathtaking—
That was far more enjoyable than the so-called "Eastern Asian transformation magic," where makeup turns someone completely unrecognizable.
That kind of thing was basically fraud.
Honestly, it should be illegal.
The people who invented beauty filters? Public punishment.
---
Henry's suspicious grin clearly didn't help his case.
Cruella snapped:
"You—next door. Go try your suit. Stop being an eyesore."
Charlize nodded in agreement.
This was a fitting session—adjustments often required removing the dress entirely.
And while Henry had already seen everything there was to see…
In a room full of female staff and tailors, having him stare like that was still too much.
With Cruella leading the charge, everyone silently agreed.
If they could, they'd have kicked him out.
---
Rubbing his nose, Henry retreated to the next room.
There, a mannequin displayed a dark gray suit.
Jasper Badun, Horace Badun, and several tailors were waiting.
"You finally got kicked out," Horace said, stuffing his face with a donut. "Took longer than I expected. Guess you're more impressive than I thought."
Since arriving in America, Horace had practically lived on donuts—at least one a day, often more.
His belt had loosened a notch or two, though his shirt buttons were still holding on for dear life.
Which just showed how much attention Cruella paid—even his clothes were constantly being adjusted.
---
Henry chuckled.
"She's my girlfriend. What's wrong with looking?"
Jasper raised a bottle toward him. Henry waved it off.
"He doesn't mean that," Jasper said, pouring himself a drink. "He means Cruella actually tolerated you in there that long. That's the surprising part."
"Oh? She's that intense?"
"'Intense' is putting it lightly. When she's working, she's… obsessive. Even we get intimidated sometimes—and we've known her since childhood."
Jasper gestured toward the suit.
"Try it on. If anything doesn't fit, we fix it immediately. If Cruella sees you in an ill-fitting suit, she'll lose her mind."
---
Henry glanced at the suit, then at their outfits.
"Same style as yours?"
From the next room, Cruella's voice rang out:
"You're the one who says 'as long as I'm not naked, I'm fine'—and now you care about style?!
"I should just give you two leaves—front and back—tied with rope! Meets your standards and gets you attention!"
Henry quickly called back:
"Come on, I have some dignity! If I wore that, I'd have to flee to a deserted island the next day!"
"Shut up! Try the suit!"
---
Moments later, Henry stepped out in the dark gray suit.
"…Wait. Why does this fit perfectly? When did you measure me?"
Horace grinned through a mouthful of donut.
"Cruella's eyes are better than any measuring tape. Impressive, right?"
"…That is impressive."
Henry tested the fit—waist, sleeves, movement.
Perfect.
---
A well-tailored suit wasn't supposed to restrict movement.
Originally derived from military uniforms during the reign of Louis XIV, suits later evolved into casual wear before becoming formal attire.
Even today, plenty of dangerous men conducted serious business in suits.
Mobility mattered.
Balancing freedom of movement with a sharp silhouette—that was the true skill of a tailor.
And this custom-made suit?
Far superior to anything Henry had ever worn from Armani.
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