The tailor sits on a stool behind the shopfront, fitting a half-made jacket on one of the three mannequins on display. He checks how the drape lies, makes sure not a basted stitch is out of place, marks his adjustments with pins. It's unorthodox performing the process right where any passerby can see, but that's the point. It's like a restaurant where you can see the cook. The kind that piques your interest and makes you pause, even just for a few seconds. It's like peeking into a secret world. On the flip side, seeing the potential customer encourages the tailor make better suits. Do his best to please his audience. Share the pride in his work.

The tailor paints a peculiar picture. Dressed in a fine suit himself, but with a head of messy hair he flicks away from his eyes. He holds pins in his mouth like an old seamstress. Abandons the cushion around his wrist, next to the Bremont watch and gold cufflinks. He sits akimbo, one leg bent, foot locked on the rungs of the stool. The other leg stretched out in front of him at an acute angle. Occasionally he takes a swallow from a mug, leaving brown rings on the small papered work table holding his supplies.

The tailor is also a sitting duck. Visible from the street where a sniper can place a bullet through his temples. Or at least that's how it seems. He continues working, confident the tempered glass will catch even armor-piercing rounds. Give him enough time to escape or grab a weapon in case they get unwanted visitors. Unless someone drives a tank through the shop, he's staying right where he is until someone or something else requires his attention.