When I finally showed Milo my new office — panoramic view of the Seattle skyline and all — he wheeled his chair to the floor-to-ceiling window, looked out, then looked at me, his eyes bright with unshed tears. He typed on his tablet.

I always knew you’d conquer the world, Captain. I just didn’t expect you to do it by weaponizing a swamp and a torn shirt.

I leaned against his chair, resting my head on his shoulder. “It’s a niche strategy.”

It worked, he typed, his synthesized voice echoing in the quiet office. I’m proud of you. But please don’t become a suit. I will run over your foot.

“Noted.”

A year later, I stood in the same pristine lobby of Pierce Meridian Group, wearing a sharp, tailored suit, my shoes perfectly intact.