The screen went dark. When it returned, he was standing outside the Malibu Club. The neon sign buzzed. A familiar voice—Ray Liotta’s ghost—spoke from nowhere and everywhere: “Ten years of this crap. Ten years. You got a nice PC, Windows 10, all the drivers. But you still came back for me.”

His reflection grinned. “I’m you, chico. Just the 2002 version.”

He didn’t press Y. He didn’t press N. He pressed the power button.

No stars. Yet.

It was no longer an arrow. It was a crosshair.