Built for the reclaimed industrial zones where the Shelf bleeds into active demolition corridors — places where falling debris, chemical runoff, and territorial disputes are all equally lethal. The foundation is a long-sleeve shirt in thick faded black synthetic, the kind of fabric that starts stiff and softens over years of wear; this one is soft. Over it, a sleeveless work jacket in rust-orange canvas has been armored with salvaged panel sections: the left shoulder carries a curved piece of hard composite cut from what was clearly once a vehicle door interior, strapped in place with three-point industrial webbing. The right shoulder is open — a deliberate choice, the straps there cut away to accommodate a chrome arm prosthetic that extends from just below the shoulder, matte-finished with the manufacturer's markings ground off, fingers worn smooth at the tips from use. The jacket's front is asymmetrically buttoned, the left side carrying six functioning cargo pockets, the right kept clear for arm movement. Trousers are combat-cut in worn olive, the thighs and shins reinforced with segments of rubber conveyor belt stitched over the original fabric, the knees blown out and repaired with self-repair tape that has yellowed and is beginning to peel at one edge. A thick belt in cracked brown synthetic leather carries a multi-tool in a molded holster, a small medical kit in a battered tin, and two more pockets whose contents make rectangular outlines under the flap. Boots are mid-calf, steel-reinforced at the toe, the right boot modified with a wider toe box to accommodate what looks like the beginning of a toe-chrome situation — a single augmented toe visible at the boot's open vamp when the laces are loose. A dented matte-black hard hat hangs from the belt by a clip, not worn, just carried.