The commercial district of Riverdale on a Saturday morning was a stark, glittering contrast to the smog-choked desolation of the Southside.
Here, the streets were paved with pristine cobblestone, lined with manicured oak trees, and flanked by towering, glass-fronted boutiques that didn't bother displaying prices on their merchandise.
If you had to ask for the price in Riverdale, you simply didn't belong there.
The heavy, jet-black Dover town car glided to a smooth halt in front of an exclusive, unmarked atelier.
Arthur stepped out and opened the rear door, allowing Victoria and Airis to step onto the sunlit pavement.
Marcus, the towering head of Dover Global Security, was already present.
He didn't hover conspicuously, but Airis's enhanced, God-Tier senses immediately detected a perimeter of plainclothes operatives strategically positioned around the plaza, their eyes scanning the crowds with lethal efficiency.
Alexander Dover was taking zero chances with his wife and daughter.
"Alright, my darling," Victoria announced, adjusting her designer sunglasses.
She was wearing a chic, tailored cream suit, radiating the formidable, unshakeable aura of a billionaire matriarch.
"Madame Genevieve has cleared her morning schedule exclusively for us.
We are going to find you a dress that will make the rest of Sakura Crest look like they bought their wardrobes from a hardware store."
Airis offered a polite, somewhat strained smile.
"Lead the way, Mom."
They stepped into the atelier. It didn't look like a clothing store; it looked like a high-end art gallery.
There were no crowded racks of dresses. Instead, the cavernous, minimalist space featured only a few mannequins displaying breathtaking, custom-draped silks under focused spotlighting.
Madame Genevieve, an impossibly elegant French woman with sharp cheekbones and a measuring tape draped like a necklace over her black turtleneck, glided forward to greet them.
"Victoria, chérie,"
Genevieve kissed the air next to Victoria's cheeks.
"And the beautiful Airis. The survivor. The whole district has been talking about your ordeal.
Come, come. I have pulled the archives. We need something strong, elegant, and utterly unforgettable for the Spring Gala."
For the next hour, Lin Ye's twenty-seven-year-old soul was subjected to the grueling, exhausting marathon of high-end fashion fittings.
Genevieve and Victoria acted like two military generals planning a synchronized invasion.
They completely dismissed pastel colors as "too juvenile," rejected sleek, modern cuts as "too aggressively corporate," and tossed aside anything overly beaded as "distractingly gaudy."
Airis simply stood on a circular velvet pedestal in front of a massive, three-paneled mirror, allowing herself to be draped, pinned, and analyzed.
She wasn't complaining. In fact, Lin Ye was intensely, deeply grateful for the strict sartorial standards of his current mother.
Since his rebirth, Lin Ye had harbored a massive, underlying psychological complex regarding his new wardrobe.
The original Airis Dover had been a deeply shy, sheltered, and conservative girl.
Even before the rebirth, she had never worn shorts, never shown her bare legs, and always opted for modest, high-collared blouses.
When Lin Ye inherited the body, he had taken that inherent conservatism and dialed it up to an absolute, paranoid extreme.
He was a grown man inhabiting a beautiful teenage girl's body.
The very concept of wearing the standard, knee-length Sakura Crest uniform skirt had sent his corporate soul into a spiral of sheer existential panic on his first day.
To combat this, Lin Ye had transformed Airis's daily uniform into an impenetrable fortress of modesty.
Beneath her pleated navy school skirt, Airis didn't just wear standard underwear.
She wore thick, opaque, 120-denier black stockings that completely obscured her skin.
Over the stockings, she wore fitted black safety shorts.
In the winter, she upgraded to fleece-lined leggings.
She refused to leave a single millimeter of her legs exposed to the open air. It was a physical and psychological barrier that kept Lin Ye's masculine dignity entirely intact.
To the rest of the school, it simply looked like the 'Ice Queen' had a very strict, aristocratic sense of traditional fashion.
"No, no, no,"
Victoria sighed, waving a hand at a stunning, backless emerald gown Genevieve had just presented.
"Airis doesn't do backless. And the slit is entirely too high.
She likes to remain covered. We need volume. We need presence."
"Ah, I understand perfectly,"
Madame Genevieve nodded, her eyes lighting up with sudden inspiration.
"Wait here. I have something in the vault.
A piece I designed for a royal exhibition, but the measurements required a very specific, flawless proportion."
Genevieve disappeared into the back room.
When she returned ten minutes later, accompanied by two assistants carrying a massive, carefully protected garment bag, the entire atmosphere in the fitting room shifted.
Genevieve unzipped the bag and pulled away the protective cotton.
Airis's breath actually caught in her throat.
It was a gown spun from the deepest, richest navy blue silk imaginable. It wasn't a sleek, modern silhouette; it was a classic, breathtaking princess style.
The bodice was structured and elegantly modest, featuring a subtle, sweetheart neckline overlaid with a sheer, midnight-blue lace that climbed to a conservative, high collar.
The sleeves were long, fitted, and made of the same sheer lace, ending in delicate, pointed cuffs at her wrists.
But the true masterpiece was the skirt.
It was a massive, voluminous bell of heavy, flowing silk that swept all the way down to the floor, guaranteed to completely hide her legs, her feet, and any potential security layers she decided to wear underneath.
"Put it on her,"
Victoria commanded, her eyes wide with artistic reverence.
With the help of the assistants, Airis slipped into the gown.
When she stepped back onto the velvet pedestal and looked in the three-paneled mirror, even the cynical, twenty-seven-year-old salaryman inside her was stunned into absolute silence.
The [Golden Ratio Pill] had already perfected her physical proportions, but this dress framed them with the terrifying, untouchable majesty of a reigning monarch.
The deep navy blue made her golden-blonde hair look like spun sunlight, and the sheer lace collar highlighted the delicate, aristocratic line of her jaw.
She didn't look like a high school junior going to a dance. She looked like a young queen preparing to address her empire.
"It is flawless,"
Victoria whispered, stepping up behind Airis in the mirror and resting her hands on her daughter's shoulders.
"Genevieve, we are taking it. Do not change a single stitch."
"It fits her as if it were spun from her own shadow," Genevieve murmured, looking deeply satisfied.
Airis ran a hand down the heavy, voluminous skirt. She loved it.
It was incredibly beautiful, but more importantly, it was the ultimate, impenetrable armor.
No one would see her legs. No one would see her shoes.
She could comfortably wear her thick black tights underneath, and her dignity would remain absolutely secure.
"Thank you, Mom. It's perfect," Airis smiled, her [Domain of Absolute Grace] unconsciously flaring with a microscopic pulse of genuine happiness.
With the dress successfully secured, packaged, and handed over to Arthur, they left the atelier.
Airis thought the ordeal was over. She assumed they were heading back to the armored town car.
She was already mentally preparing her afternoon tea schedule.
But Victoria Dover, high on the adrenaline of a successful fashion conquest, abruptly linked her arm through Airis's and steered her in the opposite direction.
"Now," Victoria declared, her eyes gleaming behind her sunglasses.
"We have the armor. But a proper gown requires the proper foundation. To the intimates boutique we go."
Lin Ye's soul stopped dead in its tracks.
Intimates boutique?
Before Airis could formulate a coherent objection, Victoria had practically dragged her through the frosted glass doors of an incredibly high-end, terrifyingly feminine store named L'Étreinte.
The interior was bathed in soft, rose-gold lighting.
The walls were lined with delicate hangers displaying an overwhelming array of silk, lace, satin, and mesh.
There were corsets, bralettes, sheer stockings, and unmentionable garments that Lin Ye's male brain simply could not process without short-circuiting.
"Mom," Airis squeaked, her melodic voice cracking slightly.
"Mom, I have... I have plenty of undergarments at home.
Mrs. Gable buys them. The standard cotton ones. They are perfectly fine."
"Cotton?" Victoria gasped, clutching her chest as if Airis had just suggested wearing a burlap sack to the Gala.
"Airis Dover, you are wearing a custom, imported silk gown. You cannot wear standard cotton underneath it.
It ruins the drape! It ruins the energy! We are getting you proper, foundational black silks.
And frankly, you're seventeen now. It's time you had a proper fitting."
A polite, smiling saleswoman approached them holding a silk measuring tape.
"Welcome, Mrs. Dover. Miss Dover. Shall we head to the private fitting suite?"
Lin Ye's internal alarms were blaring at maximum volume.
System! Airis screamed mentally. System, initiate emergency teleportation! Fake a heart attack! Drop a meteor on the plaza! Do something!
[Ding!]
[Answering Host: The Host is currently in perfect health. Initiating a localized disaster to avoid a lingerie fitting contradicts the parameters of a peaceful, slow-paced life. System recommends compliance.]
"Traitor,"
Airis hissed under her breath.
"Did you say something, darling?"
Victoria asked, ushering her into a lavish, velvet-lined fitting room that was roughly the size of Lin Ye's previous apartment.
"Nothing, Mom,"
Airis replied miserably.
What followed was the most psychologically devastating thirty minutes of Lin Ye's entire existence.
He was a twenty-seven-year-old man. He had never in his life had to critically analyze the structural integrity, cup size, and underwire mechanics of a brassiere.
To him, these delicate, incredibly expensive black silk garments looked like alien artifacts or complex bomb-defusal mechanisms.
Victoria, completely oblivious to the cosmic paradox of a male soul currently dying of existential shame inside her daughter's body, was in full, pragmatic mother mode.
"Take off the blouse, Airis, let's get a proper measurement,"
Victoria instructed, taking the tape measure from the saleswoman who waited discreetly outside the curtain.
Airis mechanically unbuttoned her white blouse, her face burning with a blush so intense it rivaled the core of a dying sun.
She stood in front of the fitting room mirror in her plain, standard-issue sports bra, looking everywhere except at her own reflection.
Victoria wrapped the tape measure expertly around Airis's ribcage and bust.
She paused, looking at the numbers, and then looked at her daughter's figure with a mixture of artistic appreciation and maternal shock.
"Good heavens, Airis,"
Victoria murmured, her eyebrows raising. She tapped Airis playfully on the side of her waist.
"When did you fill out like this? I swear you were straight up and down just six months ago.
You have absolutely perfect proportions. I'd be jealous if I wasn't the one who gave you those genetics."
The [Golden Ratio Pill] had quietly, flawlessly optimized every single biological parameter of her body over the past two weeks.
Her waist had narrowed to a mathematically perfect curve, and her chest had filled out to an idealized, incredibly feminine shape that her baggy school blazers usually hid.
Airis crossed her arms over her chest, her face now completely crimson.
If she possessed her twelve wings right now, she would have wrapped them around herself in a cocoon of absolute, suffocating shame.
"Mom, please," Airis whimpered, her corporate detachment utterly annihilated.
"Can we just buy the black ones and leave?"
"Oh, don't be so modest, darling, you have a beautiful figure. It's biology, nothing to be embarrassed about,"
Victoria laughed, a warm, wholesome sound. She completely misinterpreted Airis's burning blush as standard, teenage-girl awkwardness.
"Here. Try this set. It's pure black silk. No padding, you certainly don't need it, just structural support for the gown's bodice.
And these seamless high-waisted briefs. They'll ensure there are no lines."
Airis took the delicate, incredibly soft black silk garments as if she were being handed a live grenade.
She retreated to the corner of the fitting room, turning her back to her mother, and fumbled with the clasps.
Her fingers, which possessed the telekinetic power to rearrange the orbital path of the moon, could barely figure out how to snap the delicate metal hooks of the bra into place.
When she finally managed to put the black silk set on, she refused to look in the mirror.
The fabric felt like nothing at all against her skin, incredibly light and impossibly expensive.
"Turn around, let me see the fit," Victoria requested.
Airis slowly turned.
Victoria nodded approvingly, adjusting the strap on Airis's shoulder with a gentle, maternal touch.
"Perfect. Absolutely perfect. It provides exactly the right silhouette. We'll take three sets of these.
And the opaque black thigh-high stockings. I know how much you hate drafts on your legs, sweetheart."
Airis let out a massive, shaky exhale. "Yes. Thick stockings. The thickest ones they have. Please."
"Done," Victoria smiled, kissing Airis's burning cheek.
"Get dressed, darling. I'll go finalize the purchase."
As Victoria stepped out from behind the heavy velvet curtain, Airis practically collapsed onto the fitting room bench.
She buried her face in her hands.
She was the Right Hand of God.
She possessed the [Divine Aegis], rendering her conceptually immune to all physical, temporal, and spiritual damage.
She had stared down a lightning-wielding Esper without blinking.
She had casually commanded the traffic of an entire city grid.
And yet, she had just been completely, utterly defeated by a tape measure and a silk brassiere.
The profound, cosmic irony of her existence was staggering.
She could resurrect the dead, but she couldn't escape the mortifying reality of shopping for lingerie with a billionaire mother who wanted to praise her biological assets.
"If something is wrong, admit it in time and never repent,"
Airis groaned to herself, quickly pulling her conservative white blouse back on and buttoning it all the way to her collarbone.
She snatched her heavy black stockings and pulled them back up her legs, restoring her impenetrable fortress of modesty.
Ten minutes later, they were back out on the sunlit cobblestones of Riverdale.
Victoria looked triumphant, carrying several sleek, matte-black shopping bags.
Airis walked beside her, looking slightly traumatized, her [Domain of Absolute Grace] unconsciously working overtime to cool the residual heat from her cheeks.
"That wasn't so bad, was it?"
Victoria smiled linking her arm through Airis's as they walked back toward the idling town car.
"You're growing up, Airis. You're a beautiful young woman. You shouldn't hide yourself away in baggy sweaters and thick tights forever."
"I like my tights, Mom,"
Airis replied stubbornly, her corporate survival instincts clinging to her conservative wardrobe like a life raft.
"They are practical. And warm."
Victoria just laughed, patting her daughter's arm affectionately.
"Of course, darling. Whatever makes you comfortable."
As they slid into the plush leather backseat of the town car, and Arthur smoothly pulled away from the curb, Airis leaned her head against the tinted glass.
She closed her eyes, the ambient hum of the engine lulling her frayed nerves.
The trauma of the intimates boutique was slowly fading into the rearview mirror.
She had survived. The Spring Gala dress was secured.
Her impenetrable, conservative under-layers were upgraded to high-end silk, and her legs would remain safely, blessedly hidden beneath a massive skirt of heavy navy fabric.
The Right Hand of God let out a long, contented sigh.
Her slow-paced life was occasionally humiliating, incredibly expensive, and deeply paradoxical.
But as she felt her mother's warm, comforting presence beside her, the twenty-seven-year-old soul couldn't help but smile.
She wouldn't trade this beautifully absurd, mundane life for all the power in the universe.
Tomorrow was Sunday, a day of quiet recovery.
And then came Monday—the day the System would trigger its next Weekly Sign-In.