PRESS START TO SERVE.

He dragged the cursor in a frantic slice. The cursor passed through the tuna. Nothing happened. The timer hit zero.

He missed. He always missed. The cursor wasn't a knife; it was a lie. The only way to cut was to click—to burn . But burning wasn't serving. Burning was punishment.

The screen flashed white, then resolved into a 3D space that shouldn't have been possible on 1998 hardware. It was a sushi bar, rendered with a hyperreal clarity that made his eyes water. Every grain of wood on the counter was distinct. Each droplet of condensation on a sake bottle reflected the ceiling lights. And behind the counter stood Chef.

Marcus stared at the purple disc. It had a crack now. A hairline fracture from the center spindle to the edge. He knew, with the terrible certainty of a corrupted BIOS, that there was no disc 2. There never was. This wasn't a port. This was a lure. Atomiswave arcade hardware was for fighters and racers. This thing… this thing was a trap for hungry ghosts.