“I don’t argue with idiots. They’ve got way more
experience,” Eve read aloud, looking up from the tablet
where she was scrolling through the news.
The slogan on Elion’s T-shirt screamed against the dull
military grayness around them, begging for color—or at
least a shot of irony.
“So, what do you think? Better than the one with the cat?”
“It’s as deep as a banker’s pocket after another financial
crash. Seriously, where do you even find this stuff? Some
ancient joke manual? Or the bottom drawer labeled ‘Don’t
open unless you’re desperate’?” She shot back, rolling her
eyes, though her tone gave her away—she was enjoying this
more than she cared to admit.
“Knew you’d love it. Face it—you’ve got a soft spot for my
sense of humor. It’s one of those things that bond us, even
if you’ll never say it out loud.”
“Oh, don’t flatter yourself. I never said that, and I’m not
about to start. Wearing ridiculous shirts doesn’t make you
a philosopher. At best, you’re the king of bad jokes.”
“I can see it written all over you. You don’t have to say a
word. They’re practically screaming, ‘Elion, you’re a
genius.’ I’m no Socrates, but you have to admit… there’s
some truth stitched into this masterpiece.”
“All you’re seeing is exhaustion from another night shift.
Nothing more. Honestly, sometimes I wonder if you think at
all before you put something on. That thing’s less a fashion
choice and more a walking provocation. Wonder what the
general’s gonna say about it.”
“Jack’ll love it! He’s got more chill than you give him
credit for. Besides, it’s a T-shirt, not a political
manifesto. Come on, own it—you like my style. It adds to my
charm.”
“Charm? You mean chaos—the kind primordial gods had to clean
up before anything good happened. But fine, whatever you
say.”
