The first roll of fabric arrived on a cold, gray morning, stacked neatly against the back door of Renard's Tailor Shop. There was no note, no invoice, no sign of delivery. Just three heavy bolts of something smooth and dense, wrapped in brown paper. Renard ran his fingers over the material and shivered. It wasn't quite leather, wasn't quite silk—something in between, shifting subtly under the dim morning light.
He should have questioned it. But fine fabric was hard to come by, and he was a man who never turned down a good opportunity.
So he sewed.
The first suit was for Mr. Hastings, a thin man with sharp cheekbones and a nervous tic in his left eye. He had been a customer for years, a meticulous man never satisfied with the fit of his clothes.
Too tight, too loose. Sleeves too short, hem too long. Always something wrong.
But not this time.
Renard crafted Hastings' suit in silence, the new fabric gliding under his fingers as if it wanted to be sewn. It was unlike anything he had ever worked with—cutting cleanly, stretching in ways that made it feel less like clothing and more like skin. When the suit was finished, he ran his hands over it one last time, admiring the way it clung to the mannequin's frame.
When Hastings arrived for his fitting, he barely spoke. Just stepped into the suit, buttoned it up, and turned toward the mirror.
For the first time, there was no complaint.
His tic had stopped. His expression was unreadable.
"It's perfect," he said flatly.
Renard frowned. "Are you sure? The shoulders—"
"It's perfect."
Then Hastings smiled. It was a thin, slow thing, stretching his lips too wide. He ran his hands over the sleeves, his fingers flexing experimentally, as if testing the suit's grip on his body.
Then he walked out without another word.
The others followed.
Regular customers, curious newcomers—one by one, they ordered suits made from the strange material. And every time, it was the same: a quiet moment in front of the mirror, a lingering touch over the fabric, then that thin, stretched smile.
Gone were the usual nitpicks about fit, style, color. No one complained. No one requested adjustments.
And then they started coming back.
Not for new suits. Not for repairs.
Just to be there.
Renard would look up from his sewing machine and find them in the shop—standing, staring, their faces frozen in pleasant, vacant expressions. They never spoke. Never moved unless addressed directly.
"Is there something I can help you with?" he asked one evening, his voice tight.
Hastings was there, along with three others. They stood near the display racks, their gazes fixed on him.
"You helped us already," Hastings said. "Now it's our turn."
Renard swallowed. The shop felt suddenly too small, the air thick and stale. He reached for the nearest roll of fabric, fingers pressing into the material.
It was warm. Too warm.
And then it moved.
A slow, pulsing shift, like something breathing beneath the surface.
His stomach twisted. He turned back to the customers—no, not customers. Wearers.
Their smiles widened in eerie unison.
Renard stopped selling the suits.
He locked the extra fabric away, refused new orders, turned customers away at the door.
But it was too late.
They were still out there—his old customers, his loyal patrons. They no longer needed him to make new suits. The ones they had were enough.
They fit perfectly.
Too perfectly.
He saw them in the streets, standing too still in the cold winter air. Their suits remained pristine, untouched by dust or rain. Sometimes, he thought he saw the fabric shifting, moving along with them—not on their bodies, but as their bodies.
One night, he bolted the shop doors and swore never to sew again.
But when he turned, Hastings was there, sitting in the armchair by the fitting mirrors. He had not come through the door.
The suit was no longer just clothing. It had taken him.
His face—if it was still a face—stretched and flexed as he stood.
Renard tried to scream.
Hastings only smiled.
"Don't worry," he said.
"We'll make one for you, too."