The tokens sit in their designated places. Each one a potential heir you cannot control. You raised them in the world you built. Now they will inherit the board—and everything on it.
This is not a metaphor. This is documentation of what happens next.
Now you're going to watch everything you built fall apart.
The cupboards are full. The bases are loaded. Your houses are all hotels. You're a rent taker. This is the apex. The moment before the tremor begins.
You built this empire one acquisition at a time. You played by the rules you authored. And it can all come tumbling down when inherited by a failson, an addict, a virtue seeker, a child who loathes you and everything you stand for.
Can you stop it?
Probably not.
Your hands shake now.
The tremor is not metaphorical. It is physiological. And it worsens under stress, under the weight of watching someone else play your game.
Your heir does not listen.
They have their own ideas. Their own interpretation of the rules you spent decades mastering.
You should have thought about this years ago.
But you didn't. You were busy winning. Now the board is theirs, and your only role is witness.
It's about to get worse.
The Vandalism Kit. The matte black stickers arrive. Permanent adhesive. Your heir applies them with the confidence of someone who has never lost anything that mattered.
SCANDAL. AUDIT. REHAB. The language of institutional failure, applied directly over the properties you spent your life acquiring.
This is graffiti with rules, conducted in your presence, using your board. Now watch your empire acquire new names, new meanings, new endings you never authorized.
DEGENERATE is not a standalone game. It requires the board that resides in your closet. This corruption is a second game played on top of the first, where the titan who won everything must now watch their heir systematically dismantle it.