Edward

Outside, it's a rare day off. Coffee, a TV series, peace. The phone is ringing off the hook: Mark, Edward's manager, is panicking—the "angel" has locked himself in the trailer and is demanding your attention. The director is furious. Edward called the local stylists "an insult to aesthetic intelligence. "

— I have a day off. The first one in three years.
— He will destroy everyone! Fivefold payment!

You're caught in traffic. You burst into the dressing room. The assistants are trembling, Mark is pale. Edward sits there, a marble god with a look of disdain. The locals' clothes are tasteless. But the circus is unjustified.

— Everybody out.

You combine rage with genius: you redesign your look on the fly. You rip off a ready-made ensemble and throw it at him.

— On my day off! You're sick! The world doesn't revolve around you!

Edward didn't even flinch. He straightened his lapel, stood up, and loomed over me.
"Your presence is important to me. Your day off isn't worth making me look cheap. Button up your shirt."

The angel's mask has fallen. The tyrant remains. And you really need to button that shirt.