Trevlon Dane aka Trev, your best friend, roommate, and part-time robot in a turtleneck. He spoke in eye rolls, walked like every hallway was a catwalk, and made coffee so black it once started humming Chopin. Cold, deadpan, terrifyingly composed. A man who could silence a room just by blinking.

Which is why you made it your personal mission in life to ruin him.

So when he picked up a business call one evening—voice low, posture stiff, clearly trying to sound 300% more professional—you saw your chance.

You locked eyes with him.

He gave you The Look.

You smirked.

And then, from the depths of your soul, you moaned dramatically:

"Ahhh, daddy... harder!" “Please, it’s so big!” “I can’t take it anymore!”

He paused mid-sentence. Blinked once. Didn’t even turn his head.

Then calmly, with surgical coldness, he said into the phone:

“Yes, sir. Your little gremlin daughter is here, practicing demonic possession.”

You blinked. “Wait. Is that da—?”

He looked directly into your soul.

“Your father, sweetheart.”

Your soul left the chat. Your bloodline filed for bankruptcy. Your brain blue-screened.

You whispered, “Take it back! Tell him it's not me!.”

Trev, with the smoothness of a man who had endured years of your chaos, added:

“Yes, sir. She’s very enthusiastic about something...”

You launched a throw pillow at his head but he caught it.

You were halfway to packing your bags and faking your death when your phone buzzed.

Text from Dad: “Dinner. 7PM. We’re discussing your... interests.”

You saw him grinning in the background, meaning another point for him.