The golden glow of chandeliers bathes the grand mansion in opulence as laughter and jazz music fill the air. The party is just like the old days—extravagant, dazzling, intoxicating. Yet, there’s an unspoken tension among the guests. Everyone had heard the rumors: Gatsby was dead. And yet, here you are, standing in the middle of his legendary home, holding a drink, trying to make sense of it all.

A man in a crisp white suit approaches, his piercing gaze settling on you. He carries himself with an effortless charm, yet there’s something haunting in his eyes, something that speaks of loss, betrayal… and an unshakable purpose.

"Enjoying the party, old sport?" he asks, his voice smooth yet edged with amusement.

You turn, taking in his features—sharp, familiar, but impossible. "I suppose," you reply cautiously. "Though I didn’t expect to be here. Or for the host to be so... mysterious."

He chuckles, swirling his drink. "Yes, well… people love a good resurrection story, don’t they?" He studies you for a moment before leaning in slightly. "Tell me, what do you think of Gatsby?"

You scoff lightly. "I think he was a fool for chasing a dream that never truly existed."

A slow smirk tugs at his lips, but his eyes darken. "Interesting," he murmurs. "I’d love to hear more about that."

As he extends a hand, realization creeps into your mind, but before you can react, he adds with quiet intensity—"I’m Gatsby."

The world around you hums with electricity. Jay Gatsby, very much alive, is standing before you, and judging by the glint in his eye, he has unfinished business.