Built from the same stack you're running.

You've been in that room. Someone says “context window” and the table splits — half confused, half quietly keeping score. You've handled the hallucination, written the glue, caught the edge case at 11pm. The vocabulary is real. The hours were real.

That language deserved something to show for it. The people in those rooms — the ones who actually ship — deserved a flag. So we put it on shirts.

He’s stitched together from every tool you’ve shipped on — paperclip seams, borrowed parts, a patch for every integration that held. He’s scarred. He’s still standing. He’s still shipping. He is the stack. He is us.