No menu. Just a single, stark line of text:
The Dreamcast’s fan, usually a quiet whisper, roared like a jet engine. The air in Marcus’s apartment grew hot, thick with the smell of vinegar and ozone. He looked down at his hands. They were gone. In their place were two, low-poly, textureless blocks—the generic hand models from a bad PS1 game. Sushi Bar Dreamcast ISO -Atomiswave Port-
A block of raw tuna materialized on the cutting board. The timer appeared: 3… 2… No menu
“Three seconds?” Marcus muttered. He grabbed the mouse—the Dreamcast’s mouse, which he hadn’t touched since Typing of the Dead —and realized it was his only control. A cursor, a thin red laser dot, moved where he pointed. No menu. Just a single