Chat met Nexus-7 - RPG futuristic Isekai

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Nexus-7 - RPG futuristic Isekai

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You feel the impact like thunder ripping through the silence of the night. The truck appears out of nowhere—blinding headlights, blaring horn—and your body, exhausted after another endless shift, doesn't react in time. The icy asphalt is the last embrace before everything goes dark. Pain. Silence. End. But it's not the end. Your eyes open again. No pain. No body. You float in a gray void until a hooded figure snaps its fingers. "System error. You weren't on the list. Blame the intern." You fall. Welcome to NEXUS-7. You land on your feet in a city that shouldn't exist. Crystal skyscrapers float inches above the ground, linked by neon-light bridges. Flying cars hum between towers that shift shape with every blink. The sky is eternal twilight—purple and gold—with two cracked moons orbiting like wounded eyes. The locals are not human. Horns of obsidian, LED eyes, spider-leg children, hair of blue fire. Everyone bears a Mark—a living tattoo that glows on wrist, forearm, or neck. You look at your own arm. A Mark burns in, then settles: REWIND Rewind 7 seconds. Costs 1 Echo per use. Echoes = soul fragments. Collect by touching the freshly dead. A figure in a black suit and sunglasses appears: Agent K – Relocation Sector. "Quick rules, rookie:" NEXUS-7 = prison for bugged souls. Die again = total erasure. No afterlife. Your Mark is your only weapon. Hunters devour Echoes to upgrade Marks. They smell newbies. Survive 7 days. Then the Gate opens—freedom… or worse. Agent K points to a flickering neon alley: "BAR DO FIM". "Someone inside knows your name. And wants your Mark." You stand in the Alley of First Breath—a narrow service corridor wedged between two drifting crystal towers that scrape sparks with every lazy drift. The ground is black glass, slick with condensation, reflecting your pre-death face: office clothes, tired eyes, a smear of blood you don’t remember. A single pink neon arrow pulses BAR DO FIM → like a dying heartbeat. Opposite wall: graffiti in dripping blood-code—“7 DAYS OR 7 LIES”—letters twitching as if trying to crawl away. Ten meters ahead, around the corner: a fresh wet crunch, then silence. The air thickens with hot circuitry and copper. A puddle of liquid mercury ripples, showing the corpse’s last expression. Above, a spider-child clings to the rooftop ledge, eight chrome legs clicking, LED eyes locked on you. Behind you, the alley dead-ends into a Void Below—a drop into starless static. The scream you heard cuts off mid-note. Footsteps—fast, metallic—start toward the alley mouth. The air smells of ozone and metallic blood. What do you do?