As a psychological counselor at Blackridge Maximum Security Prison, Gavin Moore lived under immense daily pressure. Designing games was a way for him to vent—to pour everything he had seen, heard, and imagined into interactive worlds, sharing his unease and fear with players. In that sense, he was oddly generous.
I once dreamed of turning every idea I had into a finished game, he thought.
I wanted players around the world to experience the unique pull of Chinese-style suspense…
Dreams becoming reality should have been a joyful thing.
Gavin never imagined it would happen so brutally.
Carrying a cardboard box filled with game design documents, he entered the restroom and flicked open a lighter.
The flames devoured years of work.
Using the fire born from his dreams, Gavin lit a cigarette.
After reducing everything to ashes, he returned to the office, hoping Gordon Cole would cooperate and delete the remaining files stored on the studio computers.
Designs that had never secured funding were easy to erase.
But a few games had already been completed—especially the romance title discussed in that morning's meeting.
The game was called To Our Doomed Love.
Gordon had pulled every string he had to secure it for Nightlight Games. He treated it as the studio's make-or-break transition project.
"Gavin, deleting the other games is fine," Gordon said, setting down his thermos.
"But not this one."
His voice softened as he played the emotional card.
"This studio survives on that game. We've worked together for years—you don't want to see everyone unemployed, do you? I'm in my forties, I've got family to support, contracts signed with investors. If this game fails, I'm done."
Gavin understood—but he still shook his head.
Other games asked players to spend money.
His games demanded lives—players and creators alike.
"How about this," Gavin said, opening the project files.
"The overall design was David's. I only contributed some murder-case concepts. Out of the nine girlfriend routes, eight can stay. The ninth—the one I worked on—has to go."
To Our Doomed Love told the story of an introverted loser's rise. Over his life, he met nine women:
a terminally ill childhood friend,
a cold but kind corporate superior,
a manipulative toxic girlfriend like Lily Green, and others.
The first eight routes were all designed by David Wei.
Since the entire studio's combined romantic experience barely filled one hand, the storylines were painfully generic.
Gavin had felt the game lacked identity—so he suggested adding a ninth route:
Vivian Shaw.
A psychological criminal.
A serial killer.
She was a woman of terrifying emotional and intellectual intelligence. When her sincere love was betrayed, it mutated into obsession. She always knew where the protagonist was—watching him, every second.
That ninth route changed everything.
The dating sim veered violently into crime and the paranormal.
When Gavin insisted on deleting that route, Gordon was overjoyed.
"No problem! We'll cut it immediately and focus on romance from now on!"
"One more thing," Gavin added.
"Don't design so many female routes. One is enough. Ideally, she barely interacts with the protagonist. They just… live long lives together."
"How does that make a dating game?" David asked, confused.
"Modern romance is passive—go-with-the-flow. The protagonist doesn't even need social contact," Gavin replied.
If even family games could mutate into horror, romance games weren't safe either.
David didn't know whether Gavin was serious.
To him, the ninth route had been the soul of the game.
He opened the computer to make the changes—when the office's glass door suddenly opened.
The usually lazy fat cat shrieked, leapt off the desk, and hid behind a bookshelf. Its fur stood on end as it trembled.
"I'm so sorry," a gentle voice said from the doorway.
"The rain was so heavy—I couldn't get a taxi."
Everyone turned.
A woman stood there, her shoulders damp from rain.
White blouse. Pencil skirt.
Simple—but striking.
She smiled, warm and natural, as if unaware of her own beauty—or as if it were the least remarkable thing about her.
"It's fine," Gordon said cheerfully.
"Given the weather, we understand. This is Vivian Shaw, a new game designer."
He glanced at Gavin.
"Funny coincidence—same name as the character you designed."
Given Nightlight's situation, attracting top talent was impossible.
Gavin studied her from a distance.
Plain clothes couldn't hide her presence.
After years of working with death-row inmates, he recognized it immediately.
Predator's confidence.
Carnivore's elegance.
"Vivian?" he asked.
"Yes. Nice to meet you."
"…The psychological serial killer?"
She paused, startled.
Before things turned awkward, Gordon laughed it off as a joke.
Everyone greeted her warmly.
Everyone—except Gavin and the cat.
From the farthest corner, Gavin searched her name online.
Nothing.
Then he searched the other female leads from To Our Doomed Love.
One by one.
When he reached Lily Green, headlines appeared.
Two nights ago, Lily Green was found dead in her boyfriend's mansion.
Cause of death: suspected suicide.
Same name?
Or… did she kill her?
Gavin glanced at Vivian.
Her timing felt deliberate.
Cold sweat crept up his spine.
He grabbed David's arm, urging him to delete everything—immediately.
They worked until afternoon.
All of Gavin's designs were erased or altered.
Only then did he breathe easier.
Holding a cup of hot water, Gavin stepped into the break area.
The fat cat followed—fast, unnaturally agile.
"You feel it too, don't you?" Gavin murmured, petting it.
"Smart little thing."
Five minutes later, the cat collapsed—motionless.
Gavin smelled it before he saw her.
A faint scent.
Seductive. Dangerous.
Vivian stood behind him, fingers resting lightly on his shoulder, pressing him against the wall.
"Husband," she whispered.
"Are you pretending not to know me?"
The cup slipped from Gavin's hand.
"Husband…?"
"You want to delete everything," Vivian said softly.
"But it all started three days ago. Your nightmares have already become reality."
She leaned closer.
"Did you forget what happened in the tunnel that night?"
Her voice dropped, meant only for him.
"If you need help remembering… come to my place tonight."
She adjusted his collar gently, like a woman who had lived with him for years.
"Don't worry," she whispered into his ear.
"Those women who wanted you…"
"They're already dead."