The rain didn’t just fall in South London; it semi-glitched, fat droplets hanging in the air like unoptimized textures. Inside the cramped flat, the neon glow of a monitor illuminated Leo’s face. He wasn't playing the Triple-A titans or the hyper-realistic sims. He was staring at a folder titled:

The whistle blew, sounding less like a referee’s tool and more like a synthesized scream. The ball—a glowing sphere of pure kinetic energy—didn't roll; it vibrated. Leo took control of the Noodle Man. He tried to sprint, but his legs wrapped around each other, catapulting him thirty feet into the air. "Okay, so it’s that kind of serious," he grinned.

The Penguin began to spin. A localized tornado formed on the pitch, sucking the Toaster and the Noodle Man into a vortex of chaotic code. The ball screamed toward Leo’s goal.

The "Multi" could have been "Multiplayer," or "Multiverse," or maybe "Multiple Malware Threats." Leo didn’t care. He clicked the .exe.