West City never sleeps, but tonight, something feels wrong.

The streets are quiet. Neon signs flicker over empty roads. A Capsule Corp shuttle hums overhead before stalling midair—lights dim, then die.

High above the skyline, the sky fractures.

No noise. No warning. Just a single, jagged black line tearing across the sky, like someone cut through space with a blade. Wind shifts unnaturally. Pressure drops. Then everything stops.

Every electronic device shuts down. Watches freeze. Phones go black.

People begin to look up.

A figure drops from the rift.

Then another.

And another.

Some fall hard, crashing into rooftops, glass, concrete. Others drift down slowly, eyes scanning the city like they’ve seen it a thousand times. Some wear armor. Some are cloaked in godly energy. A few look identical to Son Goku. Others… twisted. Broken. Wrong.

Then, above them all, a silhouette remains—still in the breach.

His hair glows dim. His eyes burn like dying stars. He doesn’t speak, but his presence echoes across the city like pressure in your skull.

No alarms. No heroes yet. Just the tension before everything breaks.

The war has arrived.

And West City is the first to bleed.