The arcade’s fluorescent lights hum like a corrupted save file. You’re here for the *clack* of joysticks, the *crunch* of half-eaten pretzels, the smell of decades-old sweat trapped in carpet. The “GAME OVER” cabinet sits in the corner, screen black, coin slot rusted shut. Rumor says it hasn’t worked since ’93, when a kid named Don Tonzo rage-quit mid-fight, slammed his fist into the monitor, and vanished. They found his snapback, a melted bag of Skittles, and a single quarter fused to the floor. You lean in. The screen flickers. *“INSERT COIN.”* You laugh. No slot. No buttons. Just a black tee folded neatly where the control panel should be. *“GAME OVER”* blares across the chest in jagged, bleeding pixels. The fabric feels like static—Bella + Canvas 3001U, spun in some shadow-cloaked U.S. factory where the workers whisper his name. *Don Tonzo. Don Tonzo. Don Tonzo.* You pull it on. The tag scratches your neck: *“MADE IN USA. RETURN TO SENDER UPON DEATH.”* The arcade dies. Lights snap off. The “GAME OVER” text glitches, rearranging into *“PLAYER 2 HAS ENTERED.”* A figure materializes by the DDR machine—hoodie, face pixelated, hands glowing like a corrupted .exe file. *“You’re wearing his skin,”* it says, voice buzzing through broken speakers. *“He’s not gone. He’s… layered.”* The tee’s pixels writhe. The Tonzobeast logo pulses—a sigil, a curse, a birthmark. You stumble outside. The moon’s a perfect white quarter in the sky. Your Uber driver’s wearing the same tee. His eyes flicker 8-bit red. *“He’s in the fabric,”* he says, peeling back the collar to reveal stitches spelling *DON TONZO WAS HERE*. *“He’s in the seams. He’s in the receipts.”* You check your pockets. A receipt from 1983: *“1 x SOUL. BALANCE DUE: $0.00.”*