Selucas walked himself slowly (a bit hesitant and timid) in front of the mirror; there he froze for a moment, wide-eyed and blinking— almost not recognizing the figure staring back. His jaw dropped slightly, lips parting in disbelief, then slowly curling into a smile of growing pride.
His posture shifted from neutral to confident: chest out, shoulders back, arms slightly away from his body, as if to give himself more room to be seen.
The transformation was undeniable. The cargos fit snug at the waist and tapered just enough at the ankles. A white textured tee hugged his shoulders, with the utility jacket pulling it all together.
Selucas turned left, then right, admiring the clean taper of the cargo pants, how they clung just right to his thighs, then narrowed to his ankles like they were tailored just for him. He ran a hand down the leg, feeling the fabric, his fingertips brushing the tech-pockets like they were luxury features on a high-end car.
The soft morning light coming from a window right to him caught the flawless white of his Nike Air Force 1 '07 EasyOn sneakers. His eyes locked onto the clean lines and solid silhouette, admiration quietly swelling in his chest. Bending slightly, he ran his fingers along the crisp leather—smooth, firm, unyielding. The fabric felt durable yet refined, like it could take a beating but still look fresh. He pressed gently on the toe box, feeling the slight resistance and spring, then traced the stitched swoosh with a kind of reverence.
Selucas ran a hand through his hair, eyes flicking back to the mirror. Fresh fit, fire kicks. He looked good— felt even better. Youth pulsed in his veins, sexy and smooth, like he owned the day. In those shoes, he wasn't just stepping out— he was making an entrance.
These clothes.... Make me feel powerful Selucas thought astonished.
Jake nodded approvingly. "Now that's a fit. Clean, confident, and you're still you. Just a sharper version."
Selucas still stood in silent marvel - being completely blown away by his own mirror image - and stammered a short sentence - curt and plain simple - reflecting his blind dazzlement: "Okay. I kinda see it."
Jake leaned back. "Told you. You've got the frame for it. And when the pieces fit, they say something."
Lucas looked over. "What do they say?" He sounded like a newly converted believer longing for all the answers - gifts of wisdom - the fashion prophet has to offer.
Jake shrugged. "They say you know who you are. You're not hiding under a blanket or yelling for attention with a neon logo. You're standing strong," he replied a bit vaguely with a good load of airy-fairy smooth talk as befits a true prophet.
Lucas smiled. "You sound like a style philosopher. A fashion prophet...."
Jake laughed. "I am a style philosopher. But real talk, clothes don't make the man— but they help the man be seen the way he wants."
Selucas nodded slowly, the idea was sinking in. "So, this is what 'swagger' is, huh?" A fertile seed of style understanding, a fashion sense came to blossom inside him.
"Swagger is owning your space. Moving like you know you belong. The right fit just backs that up," the prophet spoke encouragingly.
Selucas looked back at his amazing reflection in the mirror and chuckled in quiet amazement, a little breathless. "Damn," he murmured to himself, spinning once and striking a spontaneous pose, his hand rubbing his hair slowly and fabulous, like a high-end fashion icon. His eyes sparkled with surprise and fresh confidence— an expression of someone seeing his own potential, wrapped in fabric that finally matched the form. Swagger wasn't just a word anymore— it was staring back at him in the mirror.
It was a revelation. Given to him by Jake, the fashion prophet of streetwear. ''I'm convinced,'' Selucas said with strengthened self-esteem, while thinking: I really do look sexy....