You buy it ironically. Because blue’s your “power color.” Because the emblem looks like Superman’s ‘S’ if he snorted pre-workout and mainlined rage. By sunset, it’s fused to your skin. The red segments pulse like a heartbeat. You flex in the mirror. The athletic fit hugs your delts like a jealous ex. *“Damn,”* you whisper. The tee whispers back: *“Weak.”* Next morning, your Uber driver wears the same tee. His emblem glows. He says nothing. Just plays *“Eye of the Tiger”* on loop while speeding through red lights. You tip 30%. That night, you’re bench-pressing cinderblocks in a parking garage. A figure in a Legacy Gold Snapback materializes. *“Don Tonzo screen-printed this during a cage match,”* he growls. *“Wear it. Train in it. *Fail* in it.”* The emblem flares. You black out. You wake up shirtless behind a Dunkin’. The tee’s folded neatly beside you. The tag reads: *“CONGRATS, SIDEKICK.”*