This wasn't just wrong—it was catastrophically wrong!
Zoey Parker stood at the factory door in PUBG's virtual world, eyes wide as saucers.
The skydiving rush, the butter-smooth movements, the gut-punch recoil of roaring gunfire, the immersive chaos!
The mountains, trees, wind—every detail screamed perfection.
Where was the "rough prototype" she'd banked on?
You call this "too late to polish"?
This was a dang finished game!
Panic clawed her chest.
No question—this game's polish obliterated her fears, torching the idea of a "prototype." It was a masterpiece.
After a year running WindyPeak Games, Zoey knew rushed games. Decent ones had clipping, weak rendering, or laggy controls. Bad ones were barely functional shells.
That's what she'd expected from PUBG.
She'd pictured fake trailer skydiving, untested sensory systems, jerky movements from high latency.
But now?
Gus Harper had nailed it.
The sensory system was flawless. Graphics and actions synced perfectly, sucking players into the chaos.
She'd been sizing up the trailer, wondering how much meat was in that hyped-up pie.
Answer: no crust, just meat.
"Screw this!" Zoey growled, ripping out of the somatosensory cabin in Tech Tower, Seattle.
Unless Gus could stop time, he'd been scheming behind her back.
Five months of normal hours couldn't make this beast. No way.
Zoey gritted her teeth, fury bubbling.
She sank into her boss chair, grabbed her phone, and dialed.
Beep—beep—
"Hey, Zoey," came Uncle Liam's warm voice.
"Uncle Liam," Zoey said, steadying her breath. "Can I check our floor's surveillance footage? That cool?"
Her dad's old friend, owner of Tech Tower, Seattle, chuckled. "Cool? 'Course it's cool! Hang on, I'll have it sent up."
Soon, the deputy general manager dropped off a USB drive with a nod.
Zoey thanked him, sent him off, and plugged it into her computer.
Most offices kept footage for a week. Tech Tower held a month.
She opened the earliest video, fast-forwarding to 5 PM.
Click.
The project department's door, stamped with WindyPeak's logo, opened. Employees bolted, not staying a second past closing.
Zoey left last at 5:01. The office emptied.
She smirked. Perfect.
But an hour later—
Rumble.
The door opened again.
Jake Rivers, burly, and Jade Sierra, tattoos flashing, strolled in, clutching coffees, laughing.
Minutes later, Caleb Knox slipped back, wiping his mouth, scrolling his phone.
Then Gus Harper and Jonah York, munching pancakes, chatting.
One by one, three, five, eight, ten employees trickled back, like prepping for a late-night study session. Some post-dinner, others from pickup games downstairs.
Zoey's thumb pressed her philtrum hard.
The project department had 16 staff, plus three execs—19 total. Now, 18 were back.
Only Luke Bennett was missing.
No way Luke stayed home. If Gus was here, Luke and Jake were close.
Her stomach twisted.
Rumble.
The door opened.
Luke Bennett, right on cue.
Behind him, the elegant Chloe Quinn, her secretary.
"No freaking way!" Zoey gasped, nails digging in.
Betrayal!
Her company—23 people, including the cleaner! Minus the cleaner and finance, 21 tied to PUBG.
Twenty came back.
She was the only one who'd clocked out.
"Broken!" Zoey wailed. "Am I the traitor?!"
Twenty people hiding this! Was that human?
Tears welled, but none fell.
It clicked—Gus's day-one tirade, chewing out the team. A ploy to throw her off, paired with a sneak attack!
"Gus, you monster!" Zoey fumed, nearly rolling on the floor.
She'd felt guilty, thinking she'd wronged him, promising no meddling next time.
He deserved justice!
Zoey snatched a $50 bill, snarling, "Fifty bucks says I make Gus Harper pay today!"
"Yo, Gus," Jake Rivers called, poking into the project office.
Gus, chatting with Luke Bennett, looked up. "What's up?"
"Ran into Ms. Parker," Jake said, nodding to the hall. "She wants you in her office."
"Cool." Gus stubbed his cigarette and headed to Zoey's office.
Knock, knock, knock.
"Come in," Zoey called, voice flat.
Gus entered. Zoey sat behind her desk, expressionless.
"You called?" Gus said, sitting. "What's—"
Bang!
Zoey yanked a massive water gun from under the desk, slamming it down.
Her eyes turned icy.
Gus flinched. "Whoa, let's talk! Gentlemen use words, not fists!"
"Hmph!" Zoey snorted. "Gun fires, people fall. People fall, they cry. They cry, they spill the truth."
"Confess. You've got three things."
Gus eyed the water gun, then the surveillance footage on her screen. His face froze, then cracked a grin. "Uh… team's been slacking?"
Zoey shook her head. "Nope."
"Ate the last lollipop in the break room."
"Nope."
Gus swallowed, eyeing the footage. "No one's griping about overtime."
"Heh." Zoey laughed coldly, grabbing the gun. "Haha, Gus, eat breakfast?"
Gus shook his head, thrown. "Nah, skipped it."
"Perfect!" Zoey's face twisted. She leapt onto the desk, gun in hand, and fired. "No breakfast? Eat my bullets!"
Squirt!
"Hey! Holy crap!" Gus yelped as icy water hit his face.
The chill was brutal.
"This is freezing! Where's this water from?!"
"Tap water!" Zoey roared, perched like a demon queen. "I banned overtime! You think you can play me?!"
"You roped in the team and my assistant, Chloe?!"
"Forget Designer Gus—call yourself Gus the Grand Deceiver!"
"Today, I wipe out the liar misleading my crew!"
Squirt!
Water blasted.
Gus bolted, shielding his head. "It's cold! You can't do this!"
"I'm doing this for the company!"
"I've bled for WindyPeak! I've earned my stripes!"
"You're a blind emperor, killing loyal soldiers!"
Zoey's rage spiked. "Shut it, you shameless jerk! Barking like that? You're done—die!"
Outside, employees huddled, eavesdropping.
Jonah York whispered to Luke Bennett, "Yo, what's that? Cosplay?"
Luke smacked his lips. "Sounds like a dumb emperor slaughtering a wise minister."
"Step in?" Jake grinned.
"Nah," Caleb Knox said. "They're having a blast."
PUBG launched that night! Twitch, YouTube Live, and Kick rolled out huge events.
"Tonight at 8 PM! Battle Royale Takes Over Asia!"
No waiting! WindyPeak Games announced PUBG's unlock at 8 PM.
Twitch Streamer Spotlight: "Tonight at 8, join Eggplant and Old Horse on the battlefield!"
Surprise or letdown? PUBG's launch would show its colors.
Saturday hit.
Backed by Asia Esports Developers Conference, Global Digital Entertainment Association, PlaySphere, and WindyPeak Games, PUBG launched at 8 PM.
The gaming world erupted.
Twitch opened PUBG channels and anchor recruitment.
Players hyped:
"Finally! Been waiting forever!"
"Twitch's servers'll crash."
"Got my sensory cabin and cash to snag it!"
"For $98, I just need the parachute to play all night."
"Haha, you're wild."
"V50 says I'm eating chicken tonight!"
"FPS section's packed with big streamers."
"With PacificTech overseeing, who'd slack?"
"Wait, another game from the conference?"
"Yeah… Fury Games' Descendants of the Sun?"
"Haha, hard pass."
The media, platforms, PacificTech, and players made Zoey's teeth grind.
That jerk Gus!
An unpolished prototype could've flopped, sparking controversy, securing her $1M loss.
But PUBG's polish—gripping, backed by hype—was unreal.
Her last hope? Sales ceiling.
With a $50M budget, including PlaySphere's 10% cut, PUBG needed $55M in a week to break even. Tough with rival FPS games.
"I've got a shot!" Zoey muttered, clenching her fists. "Can't lose $1M? I'll take $500K!"
At 8 PM, a system ping hit:
Ding! Investment round open!
Project: PlayerUnknown's Battlegrounds
Investment: $50M
Estimated rebate: $500M
Settlement time: 6 days, 23 hours, 59 minutes, 59 seconds…