We’ve expanded your Closet to include specialized categories for Outdoor Running, Golf, Yoga, Gym, Swimming, and Equestrian gear. Beyond just tracking your clothes, Dressrious now provides intelligent outfit suggestions tailored to your specific athletic activities—ensuring you look and feel your best from the gym to the golf course.
This update also includes AI improvements, bug fixes, performance enhancements for a smoother experience, and the continuation of the A Salon Story narrative.
Mysteries of the Dressrious Salon — Chapter 98
“Much better,” Trevor sighed, sinking into the plush, impossible depth of the sports car’s passenger seat as the cabin’s climate control chased away the winter chill.
“What did you learn from Gereon Ludwig? I don’t mean his words,” Style asked abruptly. He didn’t immediately pull away. He sat with his hands on the wheel, eyes reflecting the digital glow of the dashboard.
Trevor leaned back, mentally retracing his steps through the townhouse. “I think he’s only staying there temporarily,” he said after a moment. “The kitchen hasn’t seen a cooked meal in months. There’s no heating system active, no feminine touch, despite his claims about his family. Plus, he’s banking with Deutsch Bank despite living in the heart of Kings. He’s a transient.”
“Sharp,” Style nodded, a hint of approval in his voice. “The house is a stage. He likely tells his family he’s on a business trip and uses that place as a sanitized office for his ‘clients.’ He’s a man who values his distance, which makes him vulnerable. If I can flip him into my informant, he becomes the ultimate asset.”
“Your informant?” Trevor’s eyes widened. “Style… are you actually a federal agent?”
Style glanced at him, a flicker of something serious crossing his face. “I’m a deep-cover operative for the FIA. I’m telling you this because we’re past the point of coincidences. I’d appreciate it if that stayed between us.”
“Absolutely,” Trevor breathed, feeling a surge of adrenaline.
“Yeah, incredible,” Spion added from the back, leaning forward with a grin. “I’m basically a sidekick to a super-spy. This beats the hell out of studying financial theory.”
“Don’t start printing business cards just yet,” Style joked, cutting through their excitement. “I need to clear a call, and then we’re heading to the Salon for lunch.” He tapped a sleek haptic sensor on the dashboard.
“Autonomous navigation engaged,” the car responded in a smooth, low-frequency hum. Style let go of the wheel as the car merged seamlessly into the Kings Bridge traffic.
He tapped his earpiece. “Richard? It’s Style,” Style said, his voice dropping into a focused, professional register. “I’m assuming the comms blackout is over?”
“Yeah, five minutes ago,” Richard’s voice crackled through the cabin, heavy with exhaustion. “The mole was Owen. One of our own analysts. We discovered he had hacked into the surveillance system through his computer, but he committed suicide in the restroom before we could reach him.”
Style’s jaw tightened. “A dead end.”
“Mostly. We’re tearing his apartment apart now,” Richard replied. “You have anything?”
“I’ve got something better,” Style said, tapping his phone to the dashboard. “I tracked down a broker—Gereon Ludwig. He provided the bank accounts used by the hit squad. I’m sending the data over. Tell your team to follow the money and see where it bleeds.”
“Good work, Jim. You’re still the most efficient shark in the tank.”
Style ended the call and reclaimed the steering wheel, the car’s artificial intelligence handing back control with a soft chime. He exhaled, the tension of the “Agent” persona melting away as he glanced at the two in the rearview mirror. “Right. Business is over. Let’s get some lunch.”
“There’s a burger joint around the corner,” Trevor suggested.
Style let out a rich, incredulous laugh. “Seriously? I’m driving this miraculous sports car, and you just want to go to a fast-food restaurant? We’re going to the Salon.”
As they sped toward the Dressrious Salon, Spion’s eyes fixed on the thick gauze wrapped around Style’s palm as it gripped the leather steering wheel. “Style… how did you really hurt your hand? Was that from a mission? The Sukkal leader mentioned a failure in Salem… was that your doing?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Style replied, his voice dropping into a casual, almost weary tone. “A witch did that to me. You remember Professor Antonius’s diary? The FIA got a copy, which led me to a high-profile arson case in Salem. It was tied to the Arms of Ares—the gang responsible for the Professor’s death. I followed the smoke and found a coven moonlighting for the Sukkal.”
Trevor leaned forward, enthralled. “You took them on alone?”
“Hardly. I had backup from a local circle called the Trio. We broke the Sukkal’s hold on the district, but I took a nasty hex to the hand during the final breach. It’s healing, though. I should be rid of the bandage by next Wednesday.”
“I know the Trio,” Spion chimed in. “Bob’s mother is one of them. They’re old-school Hecate worshippers.”
“Small world,” Style murmured, his gaze drifting to the horizon. “I might have met her.”
“We have the diary too,” Trevor added. “The Professor’s daughter, Julia, sent it to us. It looks like a man named Dr. Victor Hoffman is pulling the strings of the Ares gang.”
“Victor Hoffman is the ghost I’ve been chasing for years,” Style said, his voice tightening. “He is extremely wealthy, active in many circles, and has a vast network of connections, yet I’ve found no direct evidence of his involvement in any crimes.”
“I’ve already built a scraper for the Professor’s data,” Trevor interjected, leaning forward. “I can layer an AI over it, something that looks for patterns, not just keywords. It might find a crack in Hoffman’s armor that a human would miss.”
Style shook his head slowly. “The FIA uses The Database, the most sophisticated AI engine in existence. We’ve run Hoffman’s life through its processors a thousand times. So far, even it hasn’t found his crimes.”
“He’ll slip up sooner or later,” Trevor insisted, his jaw set in indignation.
“And what about Pandora’s Box?” Spion asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Does the FIA have a file on that?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Style said, his voice dropping an octave. “The Agency keeps the Box under tight wraps. But my security clearance is high enough to see things behind the curtain, like the fact that there are a handful of actual aliens hiding in plain sight right here in New Athens.”
“You’re kidding. You have to be kidding,” Trevor and Spion blurted out in unison, their heads whipping toward the driver’s seat.
Style didn’t offer a confirmation or a denial. He simply chuckled, a low, knowing sound that hung in the air as he navigated the car through the winding streets of the city.
They didn’t let it go, however. Over a lunch that felt more like a royal banquet—moving through plates of seared wagyu, velvety foie gras, crisp garden salads, and a pungent board of artisanal cheeses—they peppered him with questions. But Style was a master of the “pivot.” He used the excuse of national security to block their inquiries, instead distracting them with hilarious, slightly scandalous stories about FIA bureaucratic blunders and training academy mishaps.
After the final dessert spoons were laid down, Style excused himself to his suite. “I’m going to crash. I’ll call you the second Richard’s team hits a lead,” he promised.
But the call never came. Trevor spent his afternoon back at his apartment, lost in a sea of code as he integrated a new AI heuristic layer into his analysis program. As evening began to bleed into the room, a notification chirped on his desk.
It wasn’t Style. It was Bella.
Arriving tomorrow morning. Meet me for lunch? I want you to finally meet my fiancé.