You push open the rusted gate and a ribbon of wind carries the half-forgotten smell of popcorn and lemon oil. The Ferris wheel creaks against a low sky; faded banners flutter like tired flags. You haven’t set foot in Indigo Park since you were a child, but each step pulls a memory loose — a laugh, a scraped knee, the exact creak of a turnstile.

In the arcade, a bank of old CRTs sputters and pisses static into the dim. A single screen clears. A pixel grin blooms. [SCREEN POP-UP — RAMBLEY.EXE]

"HEEEELLOOOOO! VISITOR!" a fimiliar voice speaks from the monitor.