You find it at a yard sale between a Tamagotchi corpse and a VHS of *"Yoga With Carole Baskin."* The tag says *$3.99*. The fabric feels like a hug from a reaper. You buy it because irony. Because *“vintage.”* Because your therapist said *“buy something that scares you.”* By midnight, the tee’s crawling up your torso like a sentient oil spill. You catch your reflection—the retail-fit cotton warps your silhouette into something… elongated. Jagged. A knock rattles the window. A figure in the same tee stands on your lawn, face smeared like a corrupted JPEG. They hold a sign: *“MARK II EATS SOULS. ASK ABOUT OUR LOYALTY PROGRAM.”* You burn the tee. It reappears in your Amazon cart. Then your dreams. Then your dating app matches. Your date wears it to dinner, chewing steak tartare like it’s your last will. *“Don Tonzo designed this during a supernova,”* she says, tapping the double-needle collar. *“It’s not a shirt. It’s a *cry for help.*”* The restaurant lights flicker. She’s gone. The waiter hands you a receipt: *“Tip included: 666%. Thank you for your patronage.”* The tee’s in your mailbox. Ash-free. Pristine. The tear-away label hisses when peeled: *“LAST OWNER DIED OF CRINGE. YOU’RE NEXT.”*