Knock knock knock.
"Come in," Zoey Parker called.
Gus Harper stepped into her Portland office, spotting Zoey grimacing at a stack of papers.
"What's got you so grumpy?" Gus asked, shutting the door.
"Sales summary," Zoey sighed, flipping the Phasmophobia revenue report upside down.
Chloe Quinn had handed it over, charting the game's sales spike—55,557 copies, $2,500,065 revenue, $2,000,052 profit.
A dagger to Zoey's $13,700,000–$18,000,000 rebate dreams.
My piggy bank's weeping, she thought.
But with Gus there, she forced a smile. "Never thought we'd sell that many. You… really pulled through, Gus!"
Her teeth nearly cracked on "pulled through."
Gus, clueless, grinned. "Your boy Gus is killin' it, huh?"
He mimed a double shoulder-shrug, all swagger.
Zoey's hand twitched toward her laptop, itching to chuck it at him.
Cool it, Zoey. Don't chug the chamomile tea yet.
She waved him to sit.
Gus tossed her a coconut-flavored lollipop. "New stock downstairs. Grabbed it with my smokes."
Human after all, Zoey thought, unwrapping it. "Not bad."
"Just candy," Gus said, plopping onto the sofa. "Why you acting like it's gourmet?"
"Says the guy puffing $50 artisanal cigs," Zoey shot back.
Gus laughed. "Touché, boss."
He slid the USEA invite across. "Check this out. Got any hot takes?"
Zoey scanned it, nodding thoughtfully, humming like a CEO deep in strategy.
Hmm-ohh-uhh.
Gus smirked internally. Kid's come a long way.
A year ago, Zoey, a gaming newbie, would've trashed this invite, mistaking U.S. Digital Entertainment Association (USEA) for some shady startup.
Now? She's all business, plotting moves.
Zoey finished, pointing at the letterhead. "What's this… Electronics Association thing?"
Gus's smile froze. Spoke too soon.
"It's… a big-deal promo group," he said, keeping it simple. "We'd show off with major U.S. studios at their VR conference."
Zoey's heart sank. Pre-release hype?
She'd been burned before.
Vampire Survivor's "accidental" IndieVibe promo—$199,995 revenue, $5 loss—skyrocketed sales.
But USEA wasn't IndieVibe.
Victor Lang pushed Phasmophobia to repay a favor.
USEA, the industry titan, didn't care about Mr. Parker's clout.
It was a level playing field.
And Zoey loved level fields—she was terrible at them.
"Can we… snag the whole show?" she asked, feigning hope.
Gus chuckled. "Dream on. Everyone's fighting for a spot. No way we monopolize."
Zoey's face drooped theatrically, but inside? Jackpot!
More competitors, less spotlight.
"How big are the others?" she pressed.
"Eighty percent are giants," Gus said. "We're the smallest of the small, maybe 20% of the seats."
Zoey's lips quivered, barely hiding a grin.
Perfect. Outgunned, outfunded.
She pinched her thigh under the desk to keep from cackling. "So… less promo for us?"
"Exactly my worry," Gus sighed, gloom creeping in.
Small fries like WindyPeak got corner booths at USEA's VR conference.
He needed a game with boom—max impact, min budget.
Zoey, meanwhile, was purple-faced, thighs bruising from suppressing her glee.
Don't smile, Zoey! Champagne's for after Gus leaves!
This was her dream: a rigged fight where WindyPeak's $8,850,000 Phasmophobia profit couldn't match big studios' pocket change.
Before, WindyPeak crushed peers like middle-schoolers dominating a track meet.
Now? They were kids at the Olympics.
Sunk.
Big studios would steamroll them, tanking hype and maybe even future sales.
Humble courage? Nah, overreaching and outclassed.
Zoey seized the moment, voice booming. "We have to join! It's once a year—our shot to own VR!"
"We're behind the big dogs, sure, but it's not impossible!"
"WindyPeak's got this!"
Gus's eyes lit up. That's why she's boss—young, hungry, fearless.
"I'm in," he said. "But what game? How do we stand out?"
Zoey paused.
To make bank, she'd double down on horror.
Phasmophobia's "psychological horror" crown and "hope of horror revival" buzz made sequels a no-brainer.
But with her 100x rebate card, she craved a flop.
"How about an FPS?" she suggested.
Her brain spun excuses: "This conference is VR-focused, and FPS rules VR. We've been too niche—time to dip into the mainstream. Guns, cars, sports—we can't dodge them forever. Thoughts?"
Genius, Zoey.
Gus blinked, stunned. "That's… exactly what I was thinking."
He'd fretted over pitching a second-gen FPS, but Zoey was on the same wavelength.
"Only question is the theme," Gus said. "Got ideas?"
Zoey froze.
Her Phasmophobia "sabotage" list—no weapons, short gameplay, small maps—backfired into a 9.8/10 hit.
No more blind calls.
She'd let Gus cook; his "genius" might flop harder.
"Theme? Uh…" she stalled.
Ding-dong.
A Slack ping.
Chloe Quinn: "Zoey, sent you a movie link. Free, Blu-ray quality."
Zoey grinned, flashing her phone. "Thanks, Chloe!"
She smirked at Gus. "Conference room, big screen, movie time?"
Gus frowned. "We're picking a theme here."
Zoey waved him off. "It's for inspiration, Comrade Gus! Movies spark ideas—don't be narrow-minded!"
Gus clapped slowly. "You make slacking sound noble. What's the flick?"
"Horror," Zoey mumbled, shrinking.
Gus eyed her. "Scared and need a buddy?"
Zoey flushed. "It's inspiration, okay?!"
Gus laughed. "Fine, let's 'inspire.' Lead the way."
Zoey, all swagger, grabbed snacks—chips, jellies—and dimmed the conference room.
She shoved a sofa to face the projector, flopped down, and patted the seat.
"Director, let's get to work!"
Gus gawked. "You're this smooth at slacking?"
"Daily routine," Zoey bragged, tossing him chips. "Fuel up."
She hit play.
A livestock truck rumbled down a highway.
At a checkpoint, hazmat-suited workers sprayed disinfectant.
One signaled the driver to lower his window.
Buzz.
The driver, annoyed, flashed his ID. "What now? Another bird flu scare? Can't get a break!"
Japanese dialogue hit Gus's ears.
Neon flick? Feels… familiar.