The first customer of Ethan's actual solo shift stumbled in at 10:47 PM looking like death had personally sent him a reminder notice.
Construction worker. Probably mid-thirties but looked fifty. Hard hat tucked under one arm, vest still on, concrete dust caked in his hair and the lines of his face. Steel-toed boots that had seen better decades.
He walked straight to the counter. Didn't say hi. Didn't acknowledge Ethan's existence. Just: "Pod 12."
Ethan checked the system. Pod 12 was free. "How long you need?"
"Two hours."
Twenty-two bucks. Ethan swiped the guy's card—name read TORRES, MIGUEL—and the transaction went through.
Miguel headed for Pod 12 like a homing missile. Didn't hesitate, didn't look around, just straight there. Climbed in with the practiced motion of someone who'd done this a thousand times. Headset on, pod sealed, gone.
Through the privacy glass Ethan watched his face change. The tension just... melted. Every muscle in his face went slack. Eyes closed. For a second he looked peaceful.
Then the VR kicked in and he was somewhere else entirely.
Ethan wondered where. What game? What world? What was better than here?
Probably fucking anything.
The cafe settled into this weird almost-silence. Four other pods were occupied—people already deep in their sessions when Ethan's shift started. The pods hummed. Ventilation system did its thing. Occasional beep from the payment terminal. Otherwise: nothing.
Ethan pulled out his phone. Opened his notes app. Looked at what he'd written earlier.
BURIED LIGHT (working title - sounds pretentious, change it later)
Concept: Walking simulator in the bunker years. You're the archivist. Limited space to bring stuff to the surface. Have to choose what survives.
Gameplay:
Walk around
Find stuff
Read about stuff
Decide if stuff is worth saving
Feel bad about your choices
Story:
30 years post-nuke
Surface is habitable again (barely)
We're going up
You decide what culture survives
Everything else gets destroyed/left behind
What we save defines who we become
He stared at it.
It was either brilliant or the stupidest thing he'd ever thought of.
Probably stupid.
No—definitely stupid. Who the fuck makes a walking simulator as their first game? In a market where people want to shoot robots or race cars? A game about feelings and loss and preserving culture?
Yeah. Definitely stupid.
But.
He thought about that kid in the game store. "It's all the same shit. Different box, same game."
Thought about the games he'd browsed. Technically competent. Soulless.
Thought about this world—fifty years post-apocalypse, everyone over thirty remembered the bunkers, remembered what got lost, remembered choosing what to save when you could only carry so much.
Maybe stupid wasn't the worst thing to be.
Maybe different was worth trying.
He pulled up the system interface. Thought at it until the development menu appeared.
DEVELOPMENT TOOLS: ACTIVE
He selected it.
GAME ENGINE (UNITY-COMPATIBLE)
ASSET GENERATOR (3D/2D)
CODE LIBRARY (MULTIPLE LANGUAGES)
AI DEVELOPMENT ASSISTANT
EXPORT FUNCTIONS (MULTIPLE FORMATS)
The AI assistant. He'd poked at it earlier but chickened out. Now felt like a good time. Nobody was here. He had eight hours. Might as well.
AI DEVELOPMENT ASSISTANT
Interface shifted.
HELLO. I'M YOUR DEVELOPMENT ASSISTANT.
I CAN HELP YOU:
- PORT EARTH GAMES TO LOCAL FORMATS
- GENERATE CUSTOM CODE
- OPTIMIZE PERFORMANCE
- CREATE ASSETS
- CONSULT ON DESIGN
WHAT ARE WE MAKING TODAY?
The interface felt weirdly casual. Like chatting with a coworker instead of using a tool.
Ethan started typing in his phone, knowing the system would read it.
Walking simulator. Post-nuke bunker. Player is archivist choosing what cultural artifacts to preserve before moving to surface. Story-heavy, minimal mechanics, lots of environmental storytelling.
ANALYZING...
ESTIMATED DEV TIME: 6-8 WEEKS SOLO
TECHNICAL DIFFICULTY: LOW-MODERATE
ASSET REQUIREMENTS: MODERATE
WRITING REQUIREMENTS: VERY HIGH
MARKET VIABILITY: UNKNOWN (NO COMPARABLE TITLES IN LOCAL DATABASE)
RECOMMENDATION: START WITH VERTICAL SLICE - ONE COMPLETE SECTION TO PROVE CONCEPT
PROCEED?
Six to eight weeks. He had four weeks to make rent. This wouldn't save him short-term.
But if he could finish it in two months, release it, even if it made a few hundred bucks... then next month he could make another game. And another. Build a catalog. Multiple small revenue streams.
That's how indie dev worked, right?
Or he was completely fucking delusional and this would blow up in his face.
Only one way to find out.
Yeah. Let's do a vertical slice.
EXCELLENT. I'LL NEED:
- SECTION THEME
- 3-5 SAMPLE ARTIFACTS
- DESIRED ATMOSPHERE
- EMOTIONAL TARGET
Ethan leaned back in the shitty office chair Dave had left behind. Thought about it.
What section would hit hardest? What would resonate with people who actually lived through this?
Entertainment archive felt too meta. A game about saving games. Cute but navel-gazey.
Library? Books? Everyone did the "last library" trope. Boring.
Art storage. Physical art—paintings, sculptures, photographs. Stuff that couldn't be digitized. Stuff where every choice was permanent.
Yeah. That worked.
Section: Art Storage
Artifacts:
1. Landscape painting of place that doesn't exist anymore
2. Kid's drawing from first year in bunker
3. Sculpture by artist who died in the bunker
4. Family photo, none of them survived
5. Mural painted on bunker wall itself - can't be moved, can only be photographed
Atmosphere: Quiet. Dusty. Forgotten. These things outlived their creators. Heavy.
Emotional target: Grief + hope. Loss + preservation. What we save defines us.
UNDERSTOOD. BEGINNING ASSET GENERATION.
ESTIMATED TIME: 90-120 MINUTES
YOU CAN MONITOR PROGRESS OR I'LL NOTIFY WHEN COMPLETE.
Ninety minutes. On Earth that would've taken weeks. Months solo.
This was insane.
This was cheating.
This was exactly what he needed.
Thanks. Let me know when it's ready.
WILL DO. GOOD LUCK.
The interface minimized.
Ethan sat there in the empty cafe, fluorescent lights humming, VR pods breathing their mechanical breaths, and thought: I'm actually doing this.
Then: I'm probably fucking insane.
Then: Too late to stop now.
Around 11:30, Pod 3 opened and a girl climbed out looking like she'd been crying for the last hour.
She was young. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. Asian features, black hair with electric blue tips that were growing out. Ripped jeans with the kind of patches you sew on yourself. Oversized hoodie three sizes too big. Backpack covered in pins—bands Ethan didn't recognize, political slogans, a few anime characters.
Her eyes were red and puffy. Face blotchy. But she also looked... lighter? Like crying had been the point.
She walked to the counter slow. Kept her eyes down.
"You okay?" Ethan asked, because what else do you say?
She nodded without looking up. "Yeah. Just... rough day."
"The game help?"
"Kind of." She wiped her nose on her sleeve. "It's stupid."
"If it helped it's not stupid."
She looked at him then. Actually made eye contact. Her eyes were brown, bloodshot, searching his face for something. Sincerity maybe. Everyone's always searching for that.
"Thanks," she said. Quiet. "For earlier. The discount thing."
"No problem. Seriously. Don't mention it. I just started and I'm pretty sure my boss would fire me if he knew I was giving out free time."
That got a small smile. "Your secret's safe."
She turned to leave. Got halfway to the door. Stopped.
Turned back.
"What were you working on? On your phone?"
Ethan blinked. "What?"
"When I came in to pay. Your phone was on the counter. I saw the screen. Game design notes?"
Shit. He'd left his notes app open. "Oh. Yeah. Just... messing around with an idea."
"What kind of game?"
Why was she asking? Was she actually interested or just being polite?
Fuck it. Might as well be honest.
"Story-focused thing. Walking simulator. About the bunker years. Choosing what to preserve from the old world."
Her expression shifted. Something he couldn't quite read. "That sounds really sad."
"Yeah. Probably will be."
"Good. Sad games are good." She adjusted her backpack straps. "Most games are just... noise, you know? Shooting things or racing things or collecting things. Nothing that makes you feel anything real. Sad is real."
"That's kind of what I'm going for."
"Then I hope you finish it." She pulled her hood up. "Thanks again. For the time."
"No problem. Come back whenever."
She left.
Ethan watched her disappear into the night and wondered what the hell she'd been running from. Family shit? School shit? Relationship shit? The general crushing weight of existence?
All of the above, probably.
His phone buzzed.
ASSET GENERATION 67% COMPLETE
He checked the time. 11:43. Faster than estimated.
The door opened again.
Guy walked in who looked like he'd forgotten what sleep was. Early thirties maybe, but the kind of early thirties that looked closer to forty. Hoodie, headphones around his neck, cargo pants, beaten-up sneakers. Dark circles under his eyes you could pack groceries in.
He didn't walk to the counter. He made a straight line for it like he'd done this route in his sleep.
"Pod 7 free?"
Ethan checked. "Yeah. How long?"
"Four hours."
"We close at six."
"Then four hours."
Ethan started the transaction. Swiped the guy's card.
NAKAMURA, KAITO.
The name triggered something. He'd seen this name in the system earlier when Dave was showing him around. This guy's usage logs were... concerning.
"You're here a lot," Ethan said before he could stop himself.
Kaito looked at him. Actually looked at him. His eyes were dark, flat, the kind of flat that came from seeing too much shit and deciding feelings weren't worth the effort.
"You're new."
"First real shift. Solo, anyway."
"What happened to Marcus?"
"No idea. He no-showed, I got hired. That's all I know."
Kaito grunted. "Marcus was cool. Minded his business."
"I'm not trying to get in your business. Just making conversation."
"Don't."
"Noted."
Kaito grabbed his receipt, turned to go, stopped. "You play games or just work here?"
"Both. Trying to make them, actually."
That got his attention. His eyes sharpened. "Make them?"
"Trying. Got an idea. Don't know if it'll go anywhere."
"What kind of game?"
Why did everyone keep asking him this? Was it that weird?
"Story thing. Walking simulator. About the bunker years."
Kaito's whole face changed. The flatness cracked. Something else underneath—anger? Pain? Both?
"You lived through it?" His voice was different now. Edge to it.
"No. But I'm trying to... I don't know. Do it justice."
Long silence. Kaito just stared at him.
"Most people don't," he said finally. "Do it justice. They make shooters about killing mutants or horror games about bunker monsters. Turn trauma into entertainment. Fuck that."
"Yeah. Fuck that."
"So what's your angle? Gonna make people cry? Trauma porn?"
Ethan thought about it. Tried to find the right words.
"I want to make something about what we saved. What we chose to carry forward. The weight of those choices. Not the violence. Not the horror. Just... the aftermath. The quiet part."
Another long silence.
"That's gonna fuck people up," Kaito said.
"Maybe."
"Good. Better than pretending it didn't happen." He started toward Pod 7 again, stopped halfway. Didn't turn around. "Make something that means something. Not more shallow shit. We've got enough shallow shit."
"I'll try."
"Try harder."
He disappeared into Pod 7.
Ethan stood there wondering what the hell just happened.
His phone buzzed.
ASSET GENERATION COMPLETE
READY FOR PREVIEW BUILD
RECOMMEND TESTING IN VR FOR FULL EXPERIENCE
Ethan looked around the cafe. Four occupied pods. Twenty-six empty ones.
Dave's rules: Don't sleep in the pods. Don't steal. Don't fuck in the pods.
Nothing about testing games.
Technically.
Fuck it.
He hung a "BACK IN 15 MINUTES" sign on the counter—handwritten on a Post-it because this place was classy as hell—and walked to Pod 15 in the back corner where nobody would notice.
Climbed in. The pod was surprisingly comfortable once you got past the coffin vibes. Reclined seat, headrest, arm supports. He adjusted the headset, pulled it on.
Darkness.
Then the system's interface materialized in his vision. Clean, minimalist, floating in space.
LOAD PREVIEW BUILD?
Yes.
The world assembled itself around him.
He was standing in a hallway. Concrete walls, pipes running along the ceiling, fluorescent lights flickering at irregular intervals. Doors on both sides, most sealed with those industrial wheel-lock things. Emergency lighting strips along the floor. That specific smell of underground—recycled air, concrete, metal, human occupancy.
Except he couldn't actually smell it. VR wasn't that good yet. But his brain filled in the gaps.
Bunker aesthetic. The AI had nailed it.
He walked forward. The haptic feedback in the pod was weird but functional—resistance when his feet hit the ground, slight vibration, the sense of weight and movement. His footsteps echoed.
Third door on the right: ART STORAGE WING - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
He reached for the door handle. His hand—virtual hand, but the haptics made it feel real—closed around it. Turned. The door opened with a heavy metallic groan.
Inside was bigger than he expected.
High ceiling, maybe fifteen feet. Rows of industrial shelving units, most empty. Plastic-wrapped canvases leaning against walls in groups. A few sculptures on pedestals, protected by dusty glass cases. Overhead lights were different here—softer, yellower. Preservation lighting probably.
Windows high up on one wall. Fake windows. They were underground. But the simulated daylight was convincing.
Quiet. Just ventilation hum and his breathing.
He walked to the first artifact.
Painting on an easel. Landscape. Rolling hills, bright blue sky, trees in full autumn color—reds and oranges and yellows so vivid they almost hurt. Little brass plaque at the base: Autumn Valley, 2045 - Chen Liu
He reached out. Touched the plaque.
Text appeared in his vision, overlaid on the world:
Autumn Valley doesn't exist anymore.
The hills are glass now. The trees are ash. The sky is the same color, though. That's something.
Chen Liu painted this the year before the war. He said it was his favorite place in the world. Said he went there every October to watch the leaves change.
He died in the bunker's first year. Radiation sickness. Slow. Painful. Conscious till the end.
This painting hung in the common area for a while. Someone took it down. Said it made people too sad. Reminded them of what they'd lost.
Now it's here. Wrapped in plastic. Waiting.
Do you save it?
Two options appeared: PRESERVE | ABANDON
Ethan stood there.
In a virtual bunker.
Looking at a virtual painting of a real place that didn't exist anymore.
Made by a virtual person based on real people who died in real bunkers.
And felt something crack open in his chest.
This was going to work.
Not because it was fun. Not because it was innovative. Because it was true. Because everyone in this world over a certain age had lived some version of this. Had stood in some bunker somewhere deciding what to save. Had lost people to radiation sickness. Had taken down pictures that hurt too much to look at.
His game was tapping into real collective trauma.
If he did this right, it would destroy people.
If he did this wrong, it would be exploitative garbage that trivialized real suffering.
No pressure.
He selected PRESERVE.
The painting glowed softly. Text appeared:
PRESERVED. 1/10 STORAGE SLOTS USED.
He moved to the next artifact.
A child's drawing, mounted behind glass. Crayon on paper. Stick figures holding hands. Big yellow sun in the corner. House with a triangle roof and square windows. Classic kid art.
Plaque: Untitled, 2048 - Yuki Tanaka, Age 6
He touched it.
Yuki Tanaka drew this during the bunker's first year. She was six. Too young to understand what had happened. Too young to remember the surface clearly.
Her parents told her they were on a long camping trip underground. That they'd go home soon. She believed them because what else could she do? She was six.
She drew this from memory. Or what she thought was memory. The house isn't real. The sun isn't that color. But it's what a six-year-old remembered about normal life.
Yuki is twenty-three now. She doesn't remember drawing this. Doesn't remember the early years clearly. The bunker is all she really knows.
Someone saved this drawing. Put it in a frame. Preserved it.
Why? What does a child's misremembered fantasy of normal life mean to anyone?
Do you save it?
PRESERVE | ABANDON
Ethan's eyes were wet.
He was crying.
In a VR pod at a shitty cafe at midnight, crying over fake child art in a fake bunker.
Because it wasn't fake. Not really. Some kid somewhere had drawn exactly this. Some parent had saved it. Some archivist had preserved it.
And now someone—him—had to decide if it was worth carrying forward.
He selected PRESERVE.
PRESERVED. 2/10 STORAGE SLOTS USED.
He kept going.
The sculpture: abstract metal thing, all sharp angles and negative space. Artist had died in year three. Suicide. This was all that was left of them.
The photograph: family of four, smiling, pre-war. None of them survived. Just the photo.
The mural: painted directly on the bunker wall, couldn't be moved. Someone's last artwork. Someone who knew they'd never make it to the surface but painted anyway.
Each one hit harder than the last.
By the end, Ethan was sitting on the virtual floor of the virtual bunker, headset on, tears running down his face in the real world, trying to remember how to breathe.
The system generated a summary:
You chose to save:
- The landscape (remembering beauty)
- The child's drawing (preserving innocence)
- The family photo (honoring the dead)
You chose to abandon:
- The sculpture (no space for abstraction)
- The mural (some things must stay buried)
Your choices reflect a desire to remember the past while moving toward the future. The culture you build will value memory and family over artistic experimentation.
Is this who you want to be?
Ethan pulled off the headset.
He was still crying. Couldn't stop. Didn't want to.
Because this was real. Not the bunker—the emotions. The weight. The impossible responsibility of choosing what survives.
And everyone in this world knew that weight.
His game would either help them process it or retraumatize them.
Probably both.
He climbed out of the pod. Checked the counter through the window. Nobody waiting. Nobody had noticed him gone.
He went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, looked at himself in the mirror.
Red eyes. Wet cheeks. Hair a mess. He looked like he'd been through something.
He had been.
"Okay," he told his reflection. "You can do this. You can make this work. Just don't fuck it up."
His reflection looked skeptical.
Fair.
At 2:17 AM the door opened and someone walked in who absolutely did not belong in a VR cafe at 2 AM.
Woman, early thirties, wearing a coat that probably cost more than Ethan made in six months. Hair perfect. Makeup perfect. The kind of put-together that took either serious money or serious time, probably both.
She walked to the counter with the confidence of someone who'd never been told "no" in a meaningful way.
"I need a pod."
"How long?"
"Two hours."
He started the transaction. She handed him a black credit card. Actual black card. He'd seen those in movies. Didn't know they were real.
He swiped it.
CHEN, VICTORIA.
Chen.
Oh fuck.
"You're—"
"The landlord's daughter. Yes." She took her card back, didn't look at him. "You're Ethan Cole."
"Yeah."
"You work here now."
"As of tonight."
She finally looked at him. Actually looked at him. Her eyes were calculating, cold, professional. "Your mother mentioned you were between opportunities. This is what you found?"
"It pays."
"Eight dollars an hour pays."
"Better than zero dollars an hour."
"Not by much." She tucked her card away. "My father wants to evict you. I'm the only reason he hasn't."
"I know. You told me earlier. One month."
"Can you actually make rent by then?"
Could he?
Math: Twelve hundred from the cafe minus taxes. Maybe a thousand take-home. Rent was nine-fifty. That left fifty bucks for everything else. Plus whatever his game made, which might be zero. Probably would be zero.
"Honestly? Probably not. But I'm trying."
She raised an eyebrow. "Honesty. Refreshing."
"Lying won't change the numbers."
"No. But most people lie anyway." She picked up her receipt. "Pod 15 is fine."
"Wait." He shouldn't ask. It wasn't his business. But: "You come here at 2 AM?"
"Three times a week."
"Why?"
"That's none of your concern."
"Fair."
She walked to Pod 15—the one he'd just been crying in, perfect—and climbed in.
Through the privacy glass he watched her face change. The professional mask came off. What was underneath looked tired. Sad. Human.
Rich people had problems too, apparently.
His phone buzzed. Text from Lily.
cant sleep
me neither. working
at the cafe?
yeah
hows it going
weird. met some interesting people
interesting good or interesting bad
both probably
classic
how come you cant sleep?
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
thinking about college applications
scholarships?
yeah. need like three more essays. due next week. kind of freaking out
you'll crush it. youre the smartest person i know
youre just saying that
im saying it because its true
thanks
also im making a game
The dots appeared immediately.
WHAT
like a real game?
trying to yeah
can i play it??
when its done if its not terrible
its not gonna be terrible
you havent seen it yet
i have faith in you
dont know why but thanks
because youre my brother duh
now go to sleep. youre working
you too. essay time
ugh fine
He put his phone away.
Checked the time. 2:34 AM. Three and a half hours left.
The cafe had emptied out some. Only two pods occupied now—Victoria and Kaito. Everyone else had finished their sessions and left while he was in the pod.
Quiet again.
He pulled out his phone. Opened the notes app. Started writing.
Not design notes this time. Actual dialogue. Character descriptions. Backstory for the archivist. Environmental details.
The writing came easier than expected. Maybe because he'd just played through it. Maybe because crying in VR had cracked something open. Maybe because it mattered now in a way that felt real.
He wrote until his thumbs hurt.
At 3:47 AM, Pod 22 opened and a guy stumbled out, ripped off his headset, and immediately puked on the floor.
"Fuck. I'm sorry. Motion sickness."
Ethan grabbed the mop.
"It's cool. Happens."
It did not smell cool. Smelled like the guy had eaten something that died and come back to life just to die again.
Ethan cleaned it up while the guy apologized in that ineffective way drunk people apologize. Double-bagged the mop head because that thing was done. Took it out to the dumpster.
When he came back in, Kaito was standing at the counter.
"You tested it." Not a question. A statement.
"What?"
"Your game. You tested it. In Pod 15. I saw you go in."
Shit. "Yeah. Just the vertical slice. Wanted to see if it worked in VR."
"And?"
"And what?"
"Did it work?"
Ethan thought about the painting. The drawing. The mural. The impossible choices. The crying.
"Yeah. It worked."
Kaito nodded slowly. "Good. When you finish it, I want to play it."
"It's not gonna be fun. It's gonna be depressing as hell."
"Good. Fun is easy. Making someone feel something real is hard. Do the hard thing." He headed for the door, stopped. "You got a timeline?"
"Six to eight weeks probably."
"Too long. Finish it in four."
"I have a job now. Can't work on it full time."
"Then sleep less. If it matters, you'll find time." He pushed the door open. "Night shift ends at six, right?"
"Yeah."
"So you've got six AM to two PM before you need to sleep. Eight hours. That's enough if you don't waste it."
He left.
Ethan stood there processing.
Four weeks. Kaito wanted him to finish it in four weeks.
Which was exactly how long he had before rent was due.
Coincidence? Probably. Kaito didn't know about his rent situation.
But still.
Four weeks.
He could do four weeks.
Probably.
Maybe.
He pulled up the system interface.
Can we finish the full game in four weeks instead of eight?
DEPENDS ON SEVERAL FACTORS:
- HOW MUCH TIME YOU WORK PER DAY
- HOW MUCH YOU'RE WILLING TO CUT
- HOW GOOD "GOOD ENOUGH" IS
IF YOU COMMIT 6-8 HOURS DAILY AND ACCEPT SOME COMPROMISES, YES. POSSIBLE.
BUT IT WILL BE HARD.
Hard is fine. Let's do it.
UNDERSTOOD. I'LL GENERATE AN ACCELERATED DEVELOPMENT SCHEDULE.
GET SOME SLEEP FIRST. YOU'LL NEED IT.
The interface minimized.
Ethan looked around the empty cafe. Checked the time. 4:02 AM. Two hours left.
His phone buzzed. Text from Miranda.
you actually at work or did you sneak out to do something stupid
How did she know he was working? Oh. Right. Lily probably told her.
actually at work
for real?
for real
okay
That was it. Just "okay." No congratulations. No "proud of you." Just acknowledgment.
From Miranda, that was basically a parade.
He'd take it.
At 5:00 AM exactly, Victoria emerged from Pod 15.
She looked different. Less put-together. Her hair was slightly messed up from the headset. Mascara smudged at the corners. But she also looked... calmer. Like she'd set something down.
She walked to the counter. Didn't make eye contact.
"Same time Friday?" Ethan asked.
She looked startled. "You're keeping track?"
"You said three times a week. Figured you had a schedule."
"I do." She adjusted her coat. "Friday. Yes."
"Cool. See you then."
She almost smiled. Almost. "Your game. The one you're making."
"Yeah?"
"Finish it. My father collects art. I know what it looks like when someone's actually trying to make something that matters versus making something to make money. You're trying to make something that matters."
"How do you know? You haven't seen it."
"I saw your face when you came out of Pod 15. You'd been crying. People don't cry over cash grabs." She headed for the door. "Finish it. The world needs more things that matter."
She left.
Ethan stood there wondering what the fuck Victoria Chen's story was. What game did she play at 2 AM three times a week? What was she running from?
None of his business.
But he was curious.
At 6:00 AM he kicked out the last stragglers, cleaned the pods (less puke this time, progress), locked up, and walked home.
The sun was coming up. Sky going from black to deep purple to pink-orange. The city looked almost pretty in this light. Almost.
His phone buzzed.
Text from an unknown number.
this is kaito. lily gave me your number. hope thats ok.
How did Kaito get Lily's number? Were they friends? Did Lily come to Nexus Point?
yeah its fine. whats up
you need playtesters when youre ready. i know people. we meet tuesdays. 7pm. VR cafe called Digital Dreams on 8th.
seriously?
yeah. bunch of us who actually give a shit about games. we test indie stuff. give feedback. some of us stream.
that would be amazing
dont thank me yet. we're brutal. if it sucks we'll tell you.
good. i need honest feedback.
youll get it. finish your vertical slice this week. bring it tuesday.
this tuesday? thats in four days
yeah. problem?
no. ill make it work.
good. see you tuesday.
The conversation ended.
Ethan walked home in the sunrise, exhausted, broke, committed to finishing a vertical slice in four days while working full-time nights, and thought:
This is either the best decision I've ever made or the stupidest.
Probably both.
The apartment was quiet when he got back.
Sarah's door was closed. She'd be up in an hour for work. Miranda's door was closed. She had the late shift today, wouldn't be up till noon. Lily's door was cracked open like always.
Ethan went to his room. Sat at his desk. Pulled up the system.
Four days to finish the vertical slice.
Four weeks to finish the full game.
One month to make rent.
He opened his laptop. Started working.
Outside, the sun came up over New Cascadia. Inside, Ethan typed.
He had work to do.