Stone teeth of a coliseum rose out of the Digital World like a fossilized crown. The sky above it was wrong—gray, dim, and humming, as if the sun had been put on mute.
Tai's sneakers skidded on the worn arena floor. Matt cursed under his breath. Sora reached for Biyomon like touching her partner could keep the world steady. Izzy was already scanning the walls, eyes darting, brain racing faster than his legs.
"Does anybody else feel that?" Joe asked, voice cracking between dread and denial.
Before anyone could answer, the doors slammed shut.
Not metaphorically. Not "ominous atmosphere." Actual stone grinding, echoing, swallowing the last slice of outside light as the coliseum sealed them in.
A spotlight snapped on from nowhere.
Etemon dropped into the center like a celebrity who'd practiced his entrance for a week. He dusted off his fur with theatrical disgust, then grinned at them like they'd just bought front-row tickets.
"WELL now, well now, well now," he purred, voice dripping with Elvis impersonator swagger. "Look at this! A fresh crowd, baby! A whole audience walked right into my venue—thank ya very much!"
"Who are you?" Tai demanded.
Etemon ignored the question the way a performer ignores a heckler. He spread his arms, basking in the acoustics.
"Listen here, babies, this is a special broadcast. I got drama, I got stakes, I got tears—mmhmm. All I need is a little… conflict."
The floor shifted.
Walls rose and slid like the coliseum had opinions about their friendships. Corridors snapped into place, splitting the group in a geometry of panic. Each new hallway ended in a glowing alcove—something like a "goal," something like a trap, something like a cruel joke in neon.
Tai ended up at the mouth of one corridor with Agumon at his side. Across gaps and stone partitions he could see the others—Sora gripping Biyomon, Matt braced with Gabumon, Izzy staring like he could solve it by refusing to blink.
Etemon's laughter bounced off the stone.
"Usually I run a nice, simple humiliation number," he said, wagging a finger. "Bananas. Traps. A tasteful little musical interlude. But today? Today's a crossover episode, sugar!"
From the opposite hallway, where the light didn't reach, came footsteps.
Slow. Measured. Not rushing. Not lost.
Etemon pointed like he was introducing a guest star.
"Contestant two! Come on down, baby! Step into the spotlight—let's see what the audience ordered!"
A boy stepped out.
He wasn't taller than Tai. He didn't carry himself like a villain. He didn't even look impressed. He simply stood there with a cap pulled low and a posture that said he'd already counted exits, angles, and distances.
His eyes flicked once—across the trapped kids, across the "goals," across Agumon—and then settled, steady as a locked door.
"Strong silent type, baby," Etemon cooed, delighted. "The audience eats that up."
Tai swallowed. "Who are you?"
The boy didn't answer.
He only shifted his weight half an inch, like he was aligning himself with something invisible… and waiting for a cue.
Etemon clapped once, sharp as a starting pistol.
"Alright, babies," he sang. "Let's make television."
And the arena held its breath.