The world tasted like stale metal and ozone. Ryuki's head throbbed, a dull, insistent ache behind his eyes. He coughed, a dry, rasping sound that scraped his throat. His cheek was pressed against something cold and rough, smelling faintly of refuse and damp concrete. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, his muscles screaming in protest, a symphony of minor complaints. Every joint felt stiff, as if he’d been sleeping in a twisted knot for days. He opened his eyes to a blur of grimy alley walls, streaked with rust and graffiti. The air hung thick with a humid, mechanical scent he couldn't quite place. Above him, buildings clawed at the sky, impossible structures of glass and steel that seemed to defy gravity, reaching into a perpetual twilight. Their peaks were lost in a smoggy haze, glowing with neon lights that pulsed like alien heartbeats. This was not his city. This was not *any* city he knew. His hand, unbidden, went to his chest, then his pockets. The familiar weight of his phone, his wallet – gone. Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle at the edges of his disorientation. Then, his fingers brushed against something hard and rectangular clutched in his right hand. He brought it into view, his eyes struggling to focus. It was his Master Duel ranking plaque. The dull bronze of Copper Rank 1 glared back at him, the etched Blue-Eyes White Dragon looking less majestic and more pathetic than he remembered. A flush of heat spread across his face, not from the pain, but from the memory that slammed into him like a physical blow. That damn meta deck user, running some elaborate combo, while Ryuki stuck to his pure Blue-Eyes strategy. He’d lost. Again. Just before leaving for his night shift. The memory sharpened, coalescing into a terrifying clarity. The E-bike, the dark road, the sudden glare of headlights at the intersection. The screech of tires. The sickening crunch. Truck-kun. It had been real. He had died. He was certain of it. So where in the hell was he now? The plaque felt like a cruel joke, a leftover from a life that no longer existed, clutched by a hand that felt oddly unfamiliar, yet undeniably his own. A guttural rumble shook the ground, growing rapidly louder. Ryuki flinched, pressing himself against the damp concrete wall as a vehicle roared past the alley's mouth. It was a blur of chrome and engine, unlike any motorcycle he'd ever seen, its rider hunched over the handlebars, a dueling disk strapped to their arm. This thing moved with an impossible speed, leaving a shimmering trail of light in its wake. Then, a display flickered to life on the rider’s disk, projecting holographic cards into the air. "I tune my Level 2 Speed Warrior with my Level 3 Junk Synchron!" the rider's voice, distorted by wind, carried back to him. "Synchro Summon! Come forth, Level 5, Junk Warrior!" A vortex of green energy erupted, swirling into a blinding light, and from it materialized a hulking, patchwork humanoid monster, its metallic fists clenched, ready for battle. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, the Duel Runner fading into the distant urban haze. Ryuki stared, mouth agape, the Master Duel plaque slipping from his numb fingers to clatter on the alley floor. Synchro Summon. He knew Synchro Summons. He knew them well from his Master Duel research, had even dabbled with them in a few experimental decks. But *that*? That dazzling, on-the-fly summon from a moving vehicle, with glowing energy and the sheer speed of it all? And what was a "speed spell"? What was *that* mechanic? "Speed Spells?" he muttered, the words tasting foreign on his tongue. "Penalty for non-Speed Spells taking 2000 life points? What the hell is this?" His mind reeled. His Blue-Eyes deck, his carefully constructed strategy, his entire understanding of the game – it felt like a child's toy against whatever *that* had been. A wave of white-hot fury washed over him, eclipsing the headache. He stumbled forward, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head, and slammed his Master Duel plaque against the grimy alley wall. The cheap plastic buckled, a hairline fracture spiderwebbing across the bronze surface. His rage fueled him, propelling him out of the alley and into a cacophony of sound and movement. The street was a river of people, a mix of rough-looking individuals in patched clothing and tattered cloaks, mingling with others in slightly less worn but still functional attire. The air here was thick with the smell of cheap synth-food and unwashed bodies, a stark contrast to the sterile, almost metallic scent of the alley. Elevated platforms crisscrossed overhead, carrying sleek, silent vehicles that zipped between the towering skyscrapers he’d glimpsed earlier. He could see them now, through the gaps in the grimy lower-level buildings – clean, shimmering towers that seemed to mock the squalor below. This was the Satellite, he realized with a jolt of recognition from some half-remembered urban legend. The lowest rung. The impoverished outcasts. And those glittering spires above? The 'Tops.' The wealthy. The privileged. The ones who probably dueled with those insane, high-speed machines. His cynicism, a familiar comfort from his old life, settled over him like a heavy cloak. Even in death, even in this bizarre new world, the class divide was glaring, oppressive. His Master Duel plaque, cracked and useless, felt like a symbol of his irrelevance here. He kept walking, his gait uneven, his eyes scanning for anything familiar, anything that made sense. A dueling store, maybe. A place where he could get information, or at least a deck that wasn't a worthless pile of generic cards. His old deck. His Blue-Eyes deck. Where was it? He touched his pocket again, a futile gesture. He needed it. He needed his power, his strategy, the one thing he understood. Without it, he was just another nobody in this grimy, unforgiving place. He turned down a narrower street, hoping to find a quieter path. It was darker here, the neon glow from the main thoroughfare barely penetrating the shadowed alcoves between ramshackle buildings. The scent of damp earth and something acrid, like burnt plastic, grew stronger. A movement in the periphery of his vision. He tensed. A figure emerged from the deeper shadows, silhouetted against a distant light. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a hulking presence. The man wore a patched leather jacket and had a face scarred by old fights. His lips were peeled back in a sneer, revealing a missing tooth. "Well, well, what have we here?" The voice was gravelly, laced with menace. "Lost, little bird?" Ryuki didn't answer, his eyes darting for an escape route. The alley was a dead end behind him, and the thug had effectively blocked the way back to the main street. He could fight. He knew how to defend himself. But something about the man's posture, the way he held his hands, suggested he wasn't just looking for a simple mugging. "Got any cards on you, tourist?" The thug took a step closer, his shadow falling over Ryuki. "A shiny deck, perhaps? Something a 'Tops' boy might carry?" "I don't have anything you want," Ryuki said, his voice flat, trying to project an air of disinterest he didn't feel. His heart hammered against his ribs. He felt for the spot where his deck box usually rested. Nothing. Just an empty pocket. This body, this life, was stripped bare. The thug laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Oh, I think you do." He lunged, a surprisingly quick movement for his size, pushing Ryuki hard against the brick wall. The impact jarred his teeth, and his head snapped back, hitting the rough surface with a sickening thud. A dizzying wave washed over him. The thug's hand went for Ryuki's arm, gripping it tightly. "Let's see what treasures you're hiding, boy." An agonizing burn erupted on Ryuki's right forearm. It started as a dull ache, then intensified into a searing heat, as if molten lead coursed beneath his skin. He gasped, a sharp, choked sound. His vision swam. He tried to pull his arm away, but the thug’s grip was like a vice. The pain became unbearable, a fiery brand spreading across his flesh. The thug, too, let out a yelp, his eyes widening in shock and fear. His grip loosened, and he stumbled back, staring at Ryuki’s arm. A crimson light pulsed from beneath Ryuki’s sleeve, growing brighter, stronger. It throbbed, a living entity, outlining a familiar, yet utterly alien, symbol: an arched dragon’s curve, raw and primal, emblazoned onto his skin. The light intensified, casting grotesque shadows on the alley walls, painting the thug's face in stark reds and blacks. The sheer agony was overwhelming, a fire consuming him from the inside out. He dropped to one knee, clutching his arm, panting. The thug, his face ashen, took another step back, his bravado completely gone. His eyes, wide with terror, were fixed on the glowing mark. He mumbled something incoherent, a string of terrified curses, before turning and scrambling back into the darkness from which he came, melting away without another glance. Ryuki could barely register the thug's flight. The pain was all-consuming. His arm felt like it was being flayed, then reforged in a furnace. His head spun. A voice, deep and resonant, not his own, echoed in the cavern of his mind, vibrating through his bones, through the very air around him. It was ancient, powerful, utterly alien, yet strangely familiar, a whisper that promised both salvation and damnation, reverberating against the screams of agony in his head. "Welcome, Signer."

Neo Domino's Cruel Awakening