For most people, clothes were a form of expression—something to show the world who they were, to make them feel comfortable, confident, or stylish. But for Kane, it was something far more unsettling. It wasn't just about looking good or feeling comfortable in certain fabrics. Whenever Kane put on different types of clothing, something inside him changed. At first, it was subtle—a shift in posture, a new thought that crossed his mind, a different way of walking. But soon, it became far more than that.
It all started with a suit. Kane had never liked suits. They were stiff, uncomfortable, and made him feel like he was suffocating. But when he tried on the charcoal grey suit his cousin had gifted him, something strange happened. As soon as he slid into the jacket and adjusted the tie, a wave of confidence washed over him. He straightened his back, his hands fell naturally into his pockets, and when he looked in the mirror, he didn't just see himself. He saw someone… sharper, more assertive, with a glint in his eye that hadn't been there before.
It felt good. He liked this version of himself—the man who could command a room with just a glance. He wore the suit for the rest of the day, and by evening, he found himself talking to strangers, charming everyone with a confidence he'd never had. But when he took it off later that night, something left him. The confidence drained away, leaving him with an unfamiliar hollowness.
He brushed it off as a fluke, but the feeling returned when he tried on another outfit a week later—a pair of old, ragged jeans and a leather jacket. This time, it wasn't confidence that filled him. It was rebellion. The moment he zipped up the jacket, a sneer formed on his lips, and a deep-rooted anger bubbled beneath his skin. He felt dangerous, reckless. The urge to break the rules, to tear down boundaries, was almost overwhelming.
Kane didn't recognize himself anymore, but he couldn't stop. Day after day, he found himself experimenting with his clothes, trying on different styles, different personas. In sports gear, he became fiercely competitive, aggressive, unable to rest until he had proven himself better than everyone else. In a vintage three-piece suit, he became charming, manipulative, always scheming to get what he wanted.
But then, the changes grew darker.
One morning, Kane found a trench coat at the back of his closet, a forgotten relic from years ago. It was long, black, and heavy. He slipped it on without much thought, but as soon as the fabric touched his skin, a chilling transformation took place. His emotions dulled, his heart beat slower, and the world around him seemed to lose color. He felt nothing. Absolutely nothing.
People he passed on the street seemed like shadows, insignificant, barely worth acknowledging. He felt detached, cold. The thought of violence, once repulsive to him, seemed distant now, like it was happening to someone else. He could harm, he realized, and it wouldn't mean anything. He could destroy, and he wouldn't feel a thing.
That night, as he stood in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection, a terrifying thought crept into his mind: Who am I when I'm not wearing anything?
The idea that his identity was no longer his own gnawed at him. Each piece of clothing he wore brought out someone new, someone who wasn't Kane. It was like he was pulling fragments of people from the fabric itself, their personalities seeping into his skin and reshaping his mind.
He tried to stop wearing the clothes, to avoid the outfits that made him feel like a stranger in his own skin. But the urge was too strong. The suit, the jacket, the trench coat—they called to him. He needed them. It was no longer just about wearing clothes. It was about becoming someone else, anyone else.
One day, Kane stood in front of his closet, eyes wide as he stared at the rows of outfits hanging neatly inside. He didn't know who he would be tomorrow. Or the day after. The person he once was—the real Kane—was slipping further away, lost among the different faces he wore. And soon, he feared, there would be nothing left of him at all, just a wardrobe full of faces.