In the quiet hush of the early morning, Leo moved through the sleeping apartment. As had become his ritual, he prepared a simple breakfast for his parents and left it on the table for when they woke. On his way back to his room, he passed Maya's open door.
She was still sound asleep, curled under her blankets, one arm thrown over her head. The soft glow of her VR headset's charging light was visible on her nightstand. He smiled faintly. She must have been up late again. He doubted she'd surface before ten.
He reached out to gently pull her door closed, thinking she'd been careless to leave it open. But as his hand touched the wood, he found it wouldn't shut. The old door was warped, its bottom edge rotted through, leaving a gap so wide a small dog could easily slip through.
His smile faded. He looked from the broken door to the peeling paint on the hallway walls, and a heavy sigh escaped him. This house, their home for over twenty years, was falling apart. It had never been renovated, its walls slowly decaying, its structure groaning with the weight of time. His parents only stayed because the rent was impossibly cheap—five hundred dollars a month for a three-bedroom apartment. It was all they could afford.
He gently pushed the door as closed as it would go and walked back to his own room. The sight had solidified a new, urgent goal in his mind. Moving them out of here, he thought. That has to be the first priority.
He sank into his chair, the weight of this new responsibility settling on his shoulders. He pinched the bridge of his nose, took a deep breath, and turned on his computer. It was 6:40 AM. The game had been live for just under seven hours. Time to face the music.
He navigated to the Cyber Platform, his heart thumping a nervous rhythm. He was prepared for the worst. This world was hostile to horror. A few thousand sales would be a miracle.
He clicked into the developer backend, his eyes scanning for the sales data. He found the line item for Dark Forest and saw the number.
He blinked. That couldn't be right. He must have read it wrong, maybe added an extra zero in his sleep-deprived state. He leaned closer, rubbing his eyes, and looked again.
80,000.
The number hadn't changed. It stared back at him, solid and undeniable. He read it right.
Eighty. Thousand. Copies.
A wave of vertigo washed over him. In less than seven hours, while most of the country was asleep, eighty thousand people had bought his game. The implications crashed down on him all at once. At fifteen dollars a copy, that was… one point two million dollars.
In seven hours.
And it was, for all intents and purposes, pure profit. The only money he'd spent was the five thousand from the video, which had been a gift from the system in the first place.
One point two million dollars. Pure profit.
His breath hitched. He felt a frantic, giddy energy surge through him, and he scrambled to his feet, grabbing his water bottle and taking several long, shaky gulps to calm his racing heart. He had never, ever expected this. In his wildest, most optimistic dreams, he had hoped for maybe ten thousand sales in the first twenty-four hours. This had obliterated that expectation eight times over, with more than half the day still to go.
What will the full twenty-four-hour total be? he wondered, his mind reeling. A hundred thousand, at least? The thought was intoxicating.
He wanted to be cool, to be the reserved, steady-handed producer he once was. But he couldn't. An irrepressible grin spread across his face, so wide it made his cheeks ache. He wanted to throw his head back and laugh, to scream at the top of his lungs like some maniacal villain who had just achieved his master plan.
After another long drink of water, his excitement cooled just enough for him to focus. He sat back down and navigated to the game's review section. He needed to see what the players were saying.
PlayerA (5 hours played):
"AWESOME! JUST AWESOME! I thought this would be another cash-grab, but I bought it after seeing Zaneiac's stream. I was so scared I slept with the lights on all night. 10/10."
PlayerB (2.5 hours played):
"The prologue wrecked me. Then I got to the first chapter and the underground tunnel almost made me quit. I hear the nights get worse. I don't think I have the courage to find out."
PlayerC (3.9 hours played):
"THIS is what a horror game is supposed to be! All the other trash on the market should take notes. My money was well spent! (Even if I'm too chicken to play it anymore)."
PlayerD (5 hours played):
"This game has my scalp tingling. It's the atmosphere… a lot of the scares don't even have a monster attached. Honestly, I WISH a monster would just jump out and attack me. That would be less stressful than this constant dread!"
PlayerE (5.9 hours played):
"I thought all the streamers were just hamming it up for the views. I bought it, played it, and now my voice is hoarse from screaming. They weren't exaggerating."
Leo read through the comments, a deep sense of satisfaction warming his chest. It was validation. He had been right. People didn't hate horror games. They just hated bad horror games.
He leaned back in his chair, a genuine, happy smile on his face, and closed his eyes to check his other, more important, balance sheet. The system panel materialized in his mind.
Planning: 60 (Competent)
Programming: 60 + 3 (Competent)
Art: 60 (Competent)
Music: 60 (Competent)
Dark ForestPlayer Status: 67,000 have been frightened.Total Fright Value: 143,000
He opened his eyes, his eyebrows shooting up. His programming skill had leveled up. That made sense; the intense, hands-on development had clearly sharpened his abilities. But the Fright Value… One hundred and forty-three thousand. It was more than he could have hoped for. With a 1:1 ratio, it meant that 67,000 players had been repeatedly, thoroughly terrified.
A wicked thought crossed his mind. This world's tolerance for fear is so low. It's my duty to help them build it up.
He closed his eyes again, navigating to the system's game store with the swagger of a newly-minted millionaire. He filtered by the 'Horror Survival' category, ready to purchase his next masterpiece.
And then he saw the prices.
His confidence evaporated. A Fright Value of 143,000, which had felt like an immense fortune just moments ago, was… nothing. He couldn't afford any of the games he wanted. Even the cheapest, most basic titles—simple 2D survival games—were priced at over 40,000. He was still a small fish in a vast, terrifyingly expensive ocean.
A choked, slightly hysterical laugh escaped him. He was rich in one world, and broke in another.
He took a deep breath. Fine. He would wait. He'd give it the full twenty-four hours, let the sales and the Fright Value accumulate. For now, there was something else he could do.
He opened his browser and navigated to StreamVerse. It was time to get some direct feedback on his game.
PLS SUPPORT ME AND THROW POWERSTONES .