WHO THE HELL AM I?!

Wide aerial shot. A desert plain baking under a molten sky. Dust clouds erupt behind a pack of R/C cars screaming across cracked earth. Heat haze distorts the horizon. The world feels enormous and indifferent.

The cockpit dashboard flickers. A name appears on the watch display and the car's HUD simultaneously: MR. XO CALLING. The racer's gloved hand reaches toward the answer button. There is no warmth in this call.

Darkness. Then the faintest blue light from a phone screen. Mr. U stirs — he doesn't know where he is. He doesn't know who he is. The phone rings. On the other end: a voice that knows something he doesn't. The room feels like a trap. Or maybe a chrysalis.

The garage gate rises slowly. Neon light spills out across the floor — blue and cyan bleeding into the dark. Rows of R/C cars, each glowing like something sacred. This is the only way out. Mr. U steps inside. Mr. M follows. Neither of them knows why yet.

Deep in the tree line, a grass-covered shed barely visible from the path. Inside: strings and photographs pinned to every wall. Race results. Officials. Payment ledgers. Miss H stands at the center of it, connecting the dots. The races are rigged. She's known for months. She wants a partner to prove it.

Two cars side by side, screaming through what remains of the track. Windows down. Mr. U tears off his helmet. Holds it through the window. Then throws it directly into Mr. V's cockpit. A distraction, a sacrifice, a statement. He jumps into Mr. V's car through the open window while the world falls apart beneath them.

Mr. M — the man who wanted to die in a garage three hours ago — is on his knees in the crowd. Tears running. No words left that aren't the same word. He told him to watch. He watched. He believed.

The lore world dissolves into the platform. Racers appear in the queue. Wallets connect. A Prize Pool counter ticks upward. Live R/C races load on real tracks. This isn't a story anymore. This is the game. You're in it. The story was the tutorial.