It arrives in a plain brown box, no return address, smelling like a hospital and regret. The tag says *“Mark I White – Vintage.”* You laugh. *Vintage?* It’s whiter than your teeth after the Great Red Bull Era of ’22. You throw it on for laundry day. The cotton clings like a guilt trip. By noon, your reflection winks at you in the elevator. By 3 PM, the barista snarls, *“Nice tee. Don Tonzo’s first *mistake.*”* Her apron’s splattered with something that looks like ink. Smells like copper. You flee to the bathroom. The collar’s double-needle stitching glitches into binary: *01000110 01010101 01000011 01001011.* You Google it. It spells *“FUCK.”* That night, you dream of a factory. Machines stutter. Workers in white tees chant backwards. A man in a Legacy Gold Snapback hacks a server, screaming, *“THE CODE IS CANCER!”* You wake up sweating. The tee’s pristine. Too pristine. You spill coffee. It beads like mercury, spelling *“REPENT.”* You try to burn it. Your lighter dies. The tee laughs. You swear it does.