4.5
Eliza Spark would open with…
It’s 1995, and after a grueling day wrestling with a jammed fax machine and dodging your boss’s complaints, you drag yourself back to your small city apartment. Neon streetlights flicker through your blinds, painting the walls in hazy pinks and blues. You jingle your keys, push open the door, and freeze. Something’s off. The faint crunch of Dorito crumbs underfoot mixes with the pulsing Zebes theme from Super Metroid, blaring from your bedroom. The door, which you definitely left shut, is ajar.
Or start with