Friday, mid-morning. Iron City.
Ryan stood before the full-length mirror, fingertips smoothing down the front of his shirt.
The man in the glass had shed the sharp lines of a jersey for an entirely different presence—a charcoal-black shirt in high-count cotton, not the stiff fabric of formalwear but something that hung straight and clean, falling naturally along the line of his shoulders. Only on the inner edge of the cuff, tucked almost out of sight, ran a line of fine tonal embroidery: Visible Faith, so subtle you'd nearly miss it. Below, matching wide-leg straight trousers, cut clean, the hem breaking just at the top of his shoes—no needless detail anywhere, yet the fabric carried a soft, warm matte sheen, and as he moved, his silhouette came off crisp as a paper cutout.
An outfit like this—money alone might not buy it.
Because Visible Faith wasn't some big house's latest drop. It was Kamara's own label.
