He ducked into "The Alchemist’s Tailor," a shop that smelled of cedar and old magic. The tailor, a man whose glasses had seventeen different lenses, didn’t ask for Arthur’s size. Instead, he asked, "What do you wish to command?" "I just want to look like I belong," Arthur muttered.

The tailor pulled a charcoal-grey blazer from a velvet hanger. It looked ordinary, but as Arthur slipped it on, the fabric hummed. The shoulders didn't just fit; they adjusted to his posture, making him stand two inches taller. The lapels were lined with a subtle, iridescent thread that caught the light like a dying star.

Arthur looked in the mirror. Gone was the slouching coder. In his place stood a man who looked like he could negotiate a treaty between warring suns. He tapped his credit chip against the counter without even checking the price.

"The 'Ambassador’s Weight,'" the tailor whispered. "It’s woven with silk and gravity. You won’t just buy a blazer, Mr. Arthur. You’re buying the room."

As he walked out, the jacket felt light as a shadow. He didn't just have a new piece of clothing; he had a new spine. The summit was six hours away, and for the first time in his life, Arthur wasn't nervous. He was ready.

Arthur stared at the invitation: Galactic Peace Summit – Formal Attire Required. He looked at his closet, which contained three identical hoodies and a pair of cargo pants. He needed a blazer, and he needed it before the shuttle departed at midnight.