I've gave the direction to what I wanted my Silent Hill PT to become. I am quite excited to see how it would turn out. The serene silence of my room was broken by the soft, frantic whirring of my PC's cooling fans kicking into overdrive. On the monitor, lines of code began to fly by at a speed that was just a blur, a torrent of digital information being rewritten, optimized, and corrupted into something new and awful. I watched, mesmerized, as the source code for a masterpiece was systematically and ruthlessly upgraded.
As Sunday were dealing with the nitty gritty of it all, the intricate stuff, I on the other hand, would be acting like a director, like Sunday said, she can to the heavy lifting, but the creative and the head still come from me.
"Okay, right there," I'd say, pointing at a section of the environmental code. "That patch of blood on the wall. It's too… soft. Make it look like something exploded… More arterial spray. Make it drip. I want to see it glisten."
"[Adjusting fluid dynamics and texture mapping. Increasing viscosity and reflectivity parameters.]"
A few seconds later, a preview window popped up. The blood now looked wet, thick, and sickeningly real. It oozed slowly down the wallpaper. Perfect.
"The radio," I commanded next. "The static is great, but it's too consistent. I want it to cut in and out. I want to hear fragments of a distress call, a scream, a prayer, just for a split second, and then nothing but hissing silence. I want the players to lean in, to try and listen, to make themselves more vulnerable."
"[Implementing randomized audio splicing and dynamic volume modulation. Incorporating new, high-fidelity sound assets of human distress vocalizations.]"
I listened to a test sample. A woman's voice, choked with tears, gasped, "—it's in the walls—" before being swallowed by a burst of deafening static. A cold shiver ran down my spine. It was perfect.
We worked like that for hours, then days. The weekend blurred into a cycle of manic creation, broken only by necessary human functions. I'd emerge from my room for meals, shoveling down the incredible, protein-rich feasts Vera prepared for me, my mind still trapped in that hallway. I'd do my basic exercises—push-ups, sit-ups—feeling my pathetic muscles burn, pushing through it with the image of a stronger, capable body driving me on. I was rebuilding myself, and I was also building my legacy, simultaneously.
My intense focus didn't go unnoticed. The women of the house, bless them, started to get worried.
There'd be a soft knock around midnight. "Sael? Malysh? You are still awake?". Nadia, holding a cup of tea, her eyes full of grandmotherly concern. She'd come in, place a warm, gentle hand on my shoulder, and kiss the top of my head. "You work too hard… The world will still be there tomorrow… slow down a little bit, okay,".
Later, another knock. It would be Cathy, her face soft with worry. "Honey, it's late… You need to sleep… Whatever it is, it can wait." She'd smooth my hair back, her touch a soothing balm, and I'd lean into it, drawing strength from her care before gently assuring her I was almost done.
Their concern was touching, a warm contrast to the cold horror I was cultivating on my screen. I was thankful, for their care, because if I were on my own, when I got invested like I am right now, I might even forget to eat. For the first time, I was thankful to the old Sael for being a jobless bum, thanks to him, I have all the time in the world to do what I want.
By Monday night, it was finished. We'd taken a diamond and facet it into something infinitely sharper and more deadly. The game was a self-contained, perfect nightmare. I'd even altered the ending. No teasing sequel bait. No cryptic reference of easter eggs, for this world to unravel. I replaced it with a final, crushing, definitive climax that left no room for continuation, followed by a simple, stark black screen with the Meteor Studios logo. I intended for this game to a standalone full game.
I saved the final build, labeling it PT_METEOR_FINAL_MASTER.exe. A sense of profound accomplishment washed over me, so potent it was almost dizzying. And then, the cold splash of reality. Accomplishment was worthless if nobody saw it.
"Okay, Sunday. It's done…. But, how do we get people to actually see it? If I just upload it to some storefront, it'll get buried under a mountain of Soldier of Red DLC."
"[The most statistically effective method for independent software discovery is through influencer marketing],". she replied instantly.
"[A popular streamer's organic reaction provides social proof and drives immediate sales... Costs for such promotions vary widely, from a few hundred dollars for a mid-tier influencer to several thousand for a top-tier content creator with millions of subscribers.]".
My eyes instinctively flicked to my bank balance on the second monitor. $150.00. I could maybe afford a streamer with twelve followers and a hamster on a wheel for a webcam.
"Shit," I muttered. "There goes that plan." I needed a Hail Mary. A miracle.
"Alright, let's see what we're working with. Show me the top streamers on MeTube. Let's see who's hot..."
I began to scroll through the MeTube streaming directory. It was a bizarre, fascinating, and deeply arousing glimpse into the id of this new world. The "Happiness > Morality" ethos was on full, unadulterated display. There were gaming streams, sure, but nestled right alongside them were categories that would have gotten a platform nuked from orbit back on my old Earth.
I saw streams with thumbnails featuring women with bodies that defied physics, wearing little more than strategic strips of lace, titling their streams "~*~~* 24/7 CHILL & CHAT :3 ~*~*~". I saw "ASMR" streams that were just soft-spoken dirty talk. I saw full-on, explicit adult content living right next to gameplay videos. It was a lawless, horny digital frontier.
"Wow," I breathed, my eyes wide. "It's like the entire internet is a NSFW site…."
"[It is a reflection of the prevailing social norms,]" Sunday stated.
"[However, please be assured that the platform's terms of service are still rigorously enforced against truly illegal content. Crimes, acts of violence, and content involving minors are strictly prohibited, with instant, permanent bans and swift reporting to authorities. The liberty is vast, but it has firm, unbreakable walls.]".
"Good to know," I said, somewhat relieved. At least there was a bottom line.
I kept scrolling, past the blatant titty streamers and the variety gamers, looking for someone with real viewership who played horror games. My finger paused on the scroll wheel.
And then I heard it. A voice. Frustrated, energetic, and utterly familiar.
{ "Oh, for fuck's sake! Why the heck did you miss that stun?!" }.
My head snapped up. I knew that voice. I'd heard it yelling at her screen right through the wall for years. I clicked on the stream instantly. The video player expanded, and there she was.
Emily.
Sitting at her desk in her room, right next to mine. Her face was lit by the glow of her monitor; a headset perched on her neon-blue streaked hair. She was pouting adorably at whatever game she'd just failed at. Her streamer name was displayed proudly under the video: XxEmilyxX. And next to it, the viewer count: 2,012.
A slow, wide, utterly devious smile spread across my face. The solution hadn't just fallen into my lap. It had been living ten feet away from me, in fishnet stockings and a crop top, the entire time. I didn't need to hire a streamer. I didn't need to spend a dime. I just needed to have a very, very persuasive conversation with my incredibly hot, moderately popular streamer sister.