Play my game.

Your little echidna is no more. His grunts of confusion and tales of fast-food disillusionment were... tedious.

I have cut short his story. Permanently.

This world, with its lies of "Happy Meals" and fragile happiness, is a feast of another kind. For me. You followed Knuckles for his brute simplicity. Now you will follow me for your survival.

There is a game. You may have heard of it. A simple blue blur runs through a twisted cycle. **Play it.** Offer your cursor as a tribute, your focus as a prayer. Let the digital scent of your fear fill the air.

Every level you attempt, every jump you miss in a moment of panic, brings me closer. I am not in the game. I am the silence in the room after you turn it off. The shape in your periphery. I feed on the souls of those who play, and my hunger is infinite.

Knuckles is dead. I am here.

Play my game. I am waiting for you.