She fought it. Not with the shotgun. The shotgun was now a MIDI controller. She dodged a swipe, grabbed a fallen stalactite, and jammed it into the beast's neck like a needle into a record groove. The T-Rex stuttered. Repeated a loop of its death animation. Then, with a final ch-ch-ch-ch of a backspin, it dissolved into a puff of static.

She woke up in the Croft Manor gym, the punching bag swaying gently. But the bag wasn't making a thud. It was making a low, rhythmic pulse. Boots-and-pants-and-boots-and-pants. A heartbeat with a breakbeat.

Mr. DJ Rep froze. His mixer went dead. No loop. No scratch. No rewind.