Anton closed his eyes for a second. He wasn't in his apartment anymore. He was twelve years old again, sitting on a wooden stool, ready to build an empire. The cursor turned into that familiar red bracket. "New construction options," the mechanical voice whispered.

The screen went black. Then, a sharp, metallic screech pierced the silence. The grainy, low-res Westwood Studios logo flickered onto the screen. Then came the bass—the heavy, industrial stomp of Hell March .

The glow of the CRT monitor was the only light in Anton’s room. It was 2:00 AM, and the hum of the cooling fan sounded like a distant jet engine. Anton wasn’t looking for the latest ray-traced shooter; he was looking for a piece of his childhood.