Suddenly, the pixels aligned. The static cleared into a jagged, low-definition smear of white and cherry-red jerseys. He saw the Gloucester pack digging into the mud, a wall of grit against the relentless tactical precision of the Exeter Chiefs. The audio kicked in—a tinny, distorted roar of the Kingsholm crowd that sounded like a storm trapped in a soda can.

On his monitor, the text pulsed with the rhythm of a failing heartbeat.

Marcus groaned, his face illuminated by the harsh white glare of the "404 Error" page. He looked at Link 6. It was a gamble, a siren song of more malware and broken dreams. But the score was 19-21, there were two minutes left, and in the world of the "VIPRow" pirate, the game was never over until the browser crashed for the final time. He clicked again.