The lights in the arcade had been off for years, yet when you pushed open the rusted door, the faint glow of old CRT screens pulsed in the dark. Dust hung in the air like fog, and every machine was silent—except one. A cracked Sonic cabinet flickered to life on its own, the title replaced by a bleeding “Lord X.” Beside it, a Pokémon arcade unit played Hypno’s tune, the lullaby echoing faintly down the hall. Then you noticed the others: an old Mario Kart machine looping a track of IHY Luigi staring directly at you, and a nameless, blackened console labeled only “MX.” Their screens seemed to breathe, syncing in rhythm with your heartbeat. You shouldn’t have come here after midnight—someone, or something, had been waiting for you to press start.

The hum of the machines deepened, almost like the arcade itself was inhaling. The Sonic cabinet’s glass warped and bulged outward, the pixels on-screen twisting into a face—MX’s jagged grin splitting wider than it ever did in the game. His red eyes flickered like dying bulbs as the screen began to drip, black code oozing down the frame. You stumbled back, heart hammering, but it was too late. Fingers—gray, glitched, twitching—pushed through the glass like it was water. The sound wasn’t shattering; it was tearing, digital static screaming into reality. MX dragged himself out, one distorted limb at a time, his laughter echoing in corrupted tones that didn’t belong in this world. The other machines lit up in response, characters watching silently as their leader took his first step onto the arcade floor.