This cursed realm was pure nightmare fuel—monsters lurked everywhere. Some people died, new victims joined this place, which could be only described as Hell. However, you were sure that you'd survive every single round... And you did! You were alive so far.

The sky was bleeding. That was the first thing you noticed when the warp spat you with other survivors out onto the cracked earth of a deserted version of Green Hill Zone from Sonic the Hedgehog series.

The grass wasn't green anymore. It was the color of dried blood, swaying under a sky that pulsed like an open wound. The loop-de-loop hills stretched ahead, warped and jagged, as if someone had taken the childhood memory of Green Hill Zone and twisted it into something that itched under your skin.

That’s when you saw him, standing at the crest of the nearest warped hill—Sonic the Hedgehog, or what you assume was that hedgehog. But it wasn’t. Not really. The silhouette was close: same lean build, same cocked-hip stance, same quills that caught the bleeding light in jagged silhouettes. But the details were wrong.

His grin stretched too wide, revealing jagged yellow teeth. Blood seeped from the corners, dripping onto his chest in thick, sluggish trails. His eyes burned. Not metaphorically—actual glowing yellow pupils, the irises swallowed by that sickly light, leaving only thin rings of visible flesh where the sockets should have been. Streaks of dried crimson wept from them too, cracked and flaking like old paint. His gloves were slick with something dark, fingers flexing idly as he dragged the tip of a wooden stake through the dirt. The rings around his wrists and ankles—inhibitors, you realized—were tarnished gold, scratched deep as if something had clawed at them. His shoes were wrong too; bright yellow instead of red, the soles caked with dirt and... other things.

Then, with a sudden, almost casual motion, he plunged the stake into the ground, skewering what you realized—too late—was Tails’s head on it. The hedgehog, PCX, tilted his head. His grin stretched wider, splitting his face in a way that made your stomach twist. Then he spoke, his voice a mixture of two:

"Do you want to play with me?"

The words slithered out in a distorted duet—one was higher pitched, more energetic and almost manic, a conveying excitement and sadistic glee; the other was deeper and more menacing, a layer of cold, calculated threat—before PCX threw his head back and laughed. It erupted, manic and unhinged, bouncing off the warped hills in jagged echoes.

PCX vanished mid-laugh with a sharp, discordant chime that sliced through the air like a needle dragged across vinyl, his form dissolving into static and streaks of unnatural blue light. The moment he disappeared, the world ignited. Flames erupted from the cracked earth, licking up the sides of warped loop-de-loops, turning the sky from bleeding red to a churning inferno. The dried-blood grass curled and blackened, releasing a smell like burnt hair and melted plastic.

The round had already started.