Chris checked his phone.
July 13, 2025. 7:48 PM.
A warm summer evening in Chicago. The kind where the heat still lingered in the pavement, making the air feel thick even as the sun bled out behind the skyline. The streetlights were flickering on, buzzing with life. Car horns blared in the distance, a constant rhythm in the heartbeat of the city. The smell of fried food from a nearby street vendor mixed with exhaust fumes and something faintly metallic—rain that had dried before it even had a chance to soak the streets.
The South Side was always alive, even when it was quiet. Groups of kids rode bikes, their laughter cutting through the traffic noise. An old man sat on an overturned milk crate near a liquor store, muttering to himself while watching the world pass him by. A group of teenagers leaned against a graffiti-covered wall, sharing a blunt and side-eyeing anyone who got too close. The night wasn't dangerous—not yet—but it was always waiting for an excuse to turn.
Chris pulled up his hood and kept walking.
He wasn't in a rush, but he wasn't out here for nothing either. His feet carried him forward, past familiar streets, past corner stores that hadn't changed since he was a kid. He hadn't planned on coming this way. Hell, he hadn't planned on going anywhere in particular. But here he was, headed toward a place he hadn't seen in years.
Game Haven.
The old gaming lounge sat nestled between a pawn shop and a bodega, its once-bright neon sign struggling to stay lit. The "G" in "Game" flickered in and out, as if the place itself wasn't sure it wanted to stay alive.
A street performer stood nearby, outside the liquor store next door, strumming a battered guitar. His voice was deep, bluesy, rough around the edges, like someone who had seen too much and felt every second of it.
"Lord, I done seen too much…
Can't go back, no I can't go back…"
Chris slowed his pace, listening. He knew that song.
His grandfather used to play it, back when things were simpler. Back before everything went sideways.
For a moment, he let himself sink into the memory. The sound of his grandfather's voice, the weight of a humid evening like this one, the scent of backyard BBQ mixed with cigar smoke. He could almost feel it, the warmth of those days, the safety of being young and believing that life was easy.
Then, just as quickly as it came, the moment passed.
Chris shook his head, exhaling sharply.
No point in looking back.
He crossed the street, weaving through slow-moving cars and ignoring the distant shouts of vendors trying to hustle cheap knockoff gear. The gaming lounge stood before him now, the glass door smudged with fingerprints, its once-pristine exterior worn down by time.
He hesitated for half a second, staring at the faint reflection of himself in the glass. Then, with a deep breath, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The door creaked open, metal hinges groaning from years of neglect. A wave of cool, artificial air rushed past Chris Carter as he stepped inside, carrying the familiar scent of cheap pizza, stale soda, and the faint metallic tang of old arcade machines.
He stood in the entrance of Game Haven, an old gaming lounge tucked away in a rundown strip mall on Chicago's South Side. The neon sign outside still flickered, struggling to stay lit against the orange glow of the setting sun. Chris pulled back his hood and took in the scene.
Nothing had changed.
Rows of arcade cabinets lined the walls, their screens flickering with pixelated battles from fighting games older than he was. A cluster of kids huddled around one of them, jabbing at the controls, their voices rising in heated competition. Across the room, a lone figure sat at a PC station, headset on, fingers flying over the keyboard. Near the back, a pool table stood like an old relic, its felt surface faded from years of careless play.
Yet, despite the familiarity, the place felt empty.
Chris stuffed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and stepped forward, his sneakers making little sound on the worn carpet. He had spent so much time here as a kid—back when life was simpler, when all that mattered was winning matches and talking trash with Trey and Malik. But those days were long gone.
A voice snapped him out of his thoughts.
"Well, I'll be damned… Ain't seen you in a minute, kid."
Chris turned to the counter and found Old Man Ricky staring at him, arms crossed over his chest. The man looked the same as ever—mid-fifties, salt-and-pepper beard, a weathered Chicago Bulls cap pulled low over his forehead. He had always been a grumpy old bastard, always pretending to hate the kids who hung out here. But Chris knew better.
"Yeah," Chris said, nodding once. "Been a while."
Ricky grunted, looking him up and down. "Thought you was dead or locked up."
Chris smirked. "Still breathing."
"For now." Ricky leaned on the counter, shaking his head. "What you doin' back here?"
Chris hesitated. He wasn't sure himself. He had been walking, drifting through the city with no real destination, and somehow, his feet had led him here. Nostalgia, maybe. Or something else.
"Just passing through," he said.
Ricky huffed but didn't press him. He turned away, busying himself with wiping down the counter, but Chris could feel the old man watching him from the corner of his eye.
He wandered deeper into the lounge, his gaze drifting toward the row of gaming chairs near the PC section. That was where they used to sit—him, Trey, and Malik. Every Friday night, huddled around the same damn screens, talking shit and grinding through matches until closing time.
Chris exhaled through his nose. The past was the past. No point in thinking about it now.
He kept moving.
At the back of the lounge, past the dimly lit rows of arcade machines, was a section that no one really went to anymore. It had once been the VIP area—back when the place had money to spare. Now, it was just another forgotten corner, cluttered with old equipment and unused furniture.
"Ain't nothin' back there but dust, kid," Ricky called from the front.
Chris glanced over his shoulder. "Maybe I'm feelin' nostalgic."
Ricky grunted. "Nostalgia don't pay the bills. Lemme know if you break somethin'—so I can charge you."
Chris waved him off and stepped into the dimly lit space. Dust floated in the stale air, illuminated by the flickering bulbs overhead. Most of the tables were covered in old gaming magazines, empty soda cans, and broken controllers.
And then, he saw it.
Sitting alone on a table at the far end of the room, half-buried under the clutter, was a pair of sunglasses.
Chris frowned. They didn't belong here.
They were sleek, matte black, with a thin, almost unnoticeable line of silver tracing the edges of the frames. They looked too expensive to be left lying around in a place like this.
He stepped closer, his fingers hovering over them.
For a brief moment, he swore he heard something.
Not from outside. Not from the lounge.
From the sunglasses.
A whisper, distant but undeniable. A pulse in his skull, a strange pull, like something reaching out to him.
Chris' breath slowed.
The moment I touch these, my life will never be the same.
And then—he picked them up.