Ethan Reed stepped out of the meeting room and walked down the silent corridor like a man who had just talked his way out of a firing squad. He found his desk, dropped into his chair, then glanced back through the glass.
Vivian Frost was still inside the meeting room.
She hadn't left. She hadn't stormed out. She hadn't called security. She was just… there, alone in the same room where she'd nearly shut the company down five minutes ago. She sat with her legs crossed, scrolling through her phone, waiting for the end of the workday like someone killing time in a waiting room.
Ethan swallowed.
It hit him again—Vivian wasn't like most bosses.
She didn't go home early. She didn't vanish the moment the clock said she could. In fact, she was always here. Employees used to joke about it.
Not because she was hardworking.
But because she had nothing waiting for her outside this place.
No family dinner. No friends coming over. Not even a pet. No cat. No dog. Nothing that forced her to leave. Northstar Games wasn't just a studio for her—it was her "home," even when it was empty.
Before, the staff had treated her like a mascot. A wealthy figurehead. A walking wallet. Someone who showed up to say hello, then left the work to everyone else.
And the weird part?
She didn't even deny it.
The former lead planner, Marcus Hale, used to describe Vivian with a laugh and a shrug:
"I'm just a rich girl who likes games. You guys build them. I'll pay for it."
On paper, that kind of boss sounded like a dream. No micromanaging. No screaming. No ego.
But in reality?
A boss like that only worked when your team was skilled enough to manage itself.
And Northstar Games had never been that kind of company.
Vivian's relaxed leadership style didn't inspire greatness—it invited laziness, confusion, and slow collapse. Projects drifted. Deadlines slipped. People stopped caring. And when the industry sharks came calling, the good talent didn't hesitate.
They left.
Then the mediocre ones followed.
Until only Ethan was left standing like a single chair in an abandoned room.
So when Vivian agreed to Ethan's wild proposal, it wasn't because she believed he was a genius.
It was because she was Vivian Frost.
She had money. She had patience. And she had a stubborn love for games that was almost childish in how pure it was.
A normal founder would've thrown Ethan out.
Vivian gave him a chance.
That alone told Ethan everything.
Vivian Frost was kind.
Maybe too kind.
And in this industry, kindness was practically a death wish.
---
The System Locks the Cage
Ethan leaned back, took a breath, and pulled up the interface that had appeared the moment Vivian agreed.
He immediately felt like throwing up.
[God-Level Producer System]
[Bound to: Northstar Games]
[Emotional Points: 5100]
[Game Vault: Activated]
[Third-Party Vault]
That was it.
No friendly tutorials. No "Welcome, chosen one." No helpful starter pack.
Just a cold, short menu—and the most insulting line of all:
Bound to: Northstar Games.
Ethan's eye twitched.
"How disgusting. You're literally chaining me to the company."
Was the system scared he'd run away after convincing Vivian?
Or was it terrified he'd ditch games the second he had a chance and go back to music—where his heart actually belonged?
Either way, the message was clear:
The system didn't trust him.
But even with that bitter taste, Ethan couldn't deny one thing.
If you had to make games, then having a boss like Vivian was… comfortable.
She was rich. She was pretty. And she wasn't a pain in the ass.
After dealing with annoying clients in his previous life, Ethan hated people who created drama. Vivian didn't.
She just funded dreams until reality punched her in the face.
The system, at least, had one thing going for it: its logic was simple.
It collected "emotional points" from players—joy, anger, excitement, frustration, shock—anything that a game could drag out of the human heart.
And then Ethan could spend those points inside the Game Vault to buy full game content.
A loop.
Make a game.
Trigger emotions.
Earn points.
Unlock bigger games.
Ethan opened the vault and almost choked.
The prices were insane.
Some games cost millions of points. Others cost a few thousand. Some cost less than a cheap meal.
His current total—5100—was probably leftover from the original owner's work on old projects.
5100 points in half a year.
Was that good?
Was that pathetic?
Ethan didn't have time to debate it.
Because Northstar was still dying.
And he needed a game fast.
Not just any game. Something that could sell. Something that could spark reactions. Something people would talk about.
He set a filter.
Max cost: 5000 emotional points.
Then he started scrolling like his life depended on it.
Because it did.
Some titles triggered faint memory echoes—like a blurred photograph in his head suddenly sharpening. Those were the ones he paid attention to.
Anything that gave him nothing? He skipped instantly.
A game that hadn't made a mark in his old world could still explode here… but why gamble when he didn't need to?
He found a few options.
One was a flashy anime-style fighting game that cost only 1500 points. Cheap, polished, and chaotic.
Ethan rejected it instantly.
Because this world didn't know those characters. No built-in fanbase. No hype. The game would land like a joke nobody understood.
He saw another: a small puzzle title, something about cooperation. Then another: a niche story game he vaguely remembered watching a video about years ago.
He added them to his "cart," hands steady but mind racing.
He only had one chance.
If the game failed, Northstar died.
If Northstar died, the system vanished.
If the system vanished…
So did his Earth memories.
The system claimed it would "erase" memories. But erase what, exactly?
Just the songs and games in his head?
Or everything?
His personal memories? His childhood? His life? His identity?
If it was the first option, fine—he'd lose his cheat, but he could still survive as a musician.
But if it was the second…
That wasn't erasing memories.
That was killing the host and leaving a shell behind.
Ethan gritted his teeth.
"What era is this? Still using these cheap threats?"
He wanted to scream at the system like it was a terrible author writing a terrible plot twist.
But he couldn't.
All he could do was choose.
His eyes scanned the list.
"Carbonated food crisis… no. Sounds dumb."
"Cool roller skating… never heard of it."
Then—
His pupils widened.
A title flashed that sent a shock through his brain.
Ethan's breath caught.
This one.
His hand clicked.
Purchase confirmed.
5100 points dropped to 100.
And Ethan sat perfectly still for ten minutes.
Not because he was tired.
Because information flooded his head like a hard drive being installed into his skull.
---
The First Night of Madness
Through the one-way glass, Vivian watched him sit there, blank-faced, unmoving.
She didn't interrupt.
She twirled the end of her curled hair with her fingers, eyes half-lidded, quietly curious.
Eventually, boredom won.
Vivian leaned forward, folded her arms on the table, and let her forehead rest on them.
She took an afternoon nap like a student sneaking sleep between classes.
When her phone alarm rang, she woke with a start, wiped the corner of her mouth with her sleeve, and glanced outside.
It was dark.
The office light was on.
Ethan was still there.
Vivian blinked.
"…Seriously?"
She stood, grabbed her bag, and walked out.
"Ethan. It's time to go home."
Ethan looked up like he'd been waiting for permission.
"Boss, can I stay at the company?"
Vivian stared at him.
Then her eyes narrowed.
"Are you seriously planning to make a game with that tiny budget?"
Ethan didn't answer. He turned back to the screen and started sketching and writing like a man possessed.
Vivian didn't get angry.
Instead, she tossed a ring of keys onto his desk.
"Lock the door when you leave."
Then she walked out.
And Ethan began to work like a machine.
---
A Game Built in Silence
He drew scene after scene. Simple visuals. Clean shapes. A style so straightforward it barely needed polish.
Within five hours, the core layouts were done.
If Vivian had walked closer earlier, she would've seen a dense wall of text and rough mock-ups on his monitor.
A game scene.
A real one.
And the speed was terrifying.
It didn't feel like a beginner. It didn't even feel like normal talent.
It felt like someone had snapped open a hidden part of his brain.
Like a locked door had been kicked down.
Ethan didn't know how to explain it.
All he knew was that suddenly—he could do it.
If he pushed hard enough, he could finish the entire game in three days.
Vivian had already paid for the engine license. Music could be sourced from safe libraries. Sound effects could be recorded or generated easily.
Tonight was guaranteed to be sleepless.
And it was.
---
The Morning Shock
The next day, Vivian arrived as usual.
She swiped her access card, stepped into the building… and froze.
The office was empty, quiet, dead.
Then—
Keyboard tapping.
Fast. Aggressive. Like a machine gun made of plastic keys.
Vivian's eyes widened.
"No way…"
She pushed open the door and walked in, sneakers silent on the floor.
At Ethan's desk, she saw him—eyes bright, hair messy, fingers flying.
He looked excited. Almost happy.
Vivian walked behind him, stared at the screen, then spoke through gritted teeth:
"Intern… are you out of your mind?"
Ethan turned around with a grin.
"Morning, boss."
Vivian looked like she wanted to throw something at him.
"Morning, you big idiot! You stayed up all night?!"
She pressed her hand into his shoulder hard enough to make him wince.
"Go to sleep. Now. I'm not letting the headlines say 'Employee dies suddenly' before the company even finishes dying!"
Ethan waved it off.
"It's fine. I slept three hours."
Vivian looked ready to explode.
But instead, she exhaled, then left.
A while later, she returned carrying a small bag and dropped it on his desk.
"Breakfast. Eat it. Then sleep."
Ethan stared at her in surprise.
Vivian snapped, as if embarrassed by her own kindness.
"Eat and sleep, you lunatic! You think you can finish the game in a few days? What, you're trying to save Northstar by dying dramatically? That's not gratitude—that's revenge!"
Her words were sharp.
But her actions were warm.
Ethan ate the buns and drank the soy milk, then lay down on a makeshift bed made from two chairs.
He closed his eyes.
But his mind still ran.
Sound effects. Timing. Player reactions. The kind of chaos that would make people laugh, rage, and share clips.
The thought of players losing their minds over the game made him tremble with excitement.
Eventually, his energy faded.
He fell asleep.
---
Kindness Has a Signature
When Ethan woke, dusk had arrived again.
His neck hurt. His body felt stiff. But when he sat up, he saw food on the table.
And a note.
(Eat and go home. If you die suddenly, I'm not responsible.)
Ethan snorted.
Cold words. Soft heart.
And her handwriting… was clean and elegant, like she'd practiced it for years.
While eating the slightly cold rice, Ethan ignored the threat entirely.
What boss bought meals for an intern?
In most places, interns were the ones fetching food.
Which meant only one thing:
Vivian Frost really was a kind girl.
A wealthy, idealistic young founder who hadn't been hardened by the world yet.
And Ethan?
Ethan wasn't going to waste that kindness.
He cleaned up the trash, tossed it into the bin, rolled his shoulders…
And sat back down to code.
His game would be finished tomorrow.