"What's with this… vibe?"
Tokyo Narita Airport!
Stepping into the arrival hall, Gus Harper spotted a sign in crisp English amid the crowd: Welcome Mr. Gus Harper to Japan.
For a second, he felt like he'd stumbled into a sitcom.
Who writes a sign like that?
English for courtesy, sure, but this… too much?
Striding forward, Gus noticed the sign-holder—a sharply dressed Japanese woman clutching a bouquet.
Weird thing: even though they're all Asian, Gus could instantly tell she wasn't from his side of the Pacific. Couldn't pin why.
"Hey, I'm Gus Harper," he said, extending a hand.
His Japanese was rough—just a few phrases, beginner stuff. English was his go-to.
"Oh! Hai, hai, konnichiwa!" The woman blinked, clearly thrown by his youth.
Snapping out of it, she stepped up, handed him the flowers, and bowed. "Mr. Harper, apologies for not greeting you personally!"
She tucked the sign away and gestured. "President Moriya and the Game Division execs are waiting outside. This way, please."
"Nice flowers, thanks for the effort," Gus said, smiling, nodding for her to lead.
Exiting the hall, he spotted Komina's big shots waiting.
Leading the pack was Tetsuya Moriya, Komina Games' president.
Flanking him were his assistant, Sanae Inoue, and Game Division head, Kenji Higashida.
Behind them, five or six suits—black jackets, white shirts, ties—stood by three cars: two sedans, one business van.
Looked like a mob scene.
Scratch that—Komina might have those kinda roots.
Gus smirked inwardly and stepped through the sliding doors.
Moriya, with Sanae and Kenji, rushed forward, all smiles. "Mr. Harper! Sorry for not greeting you inside."
"Nah, you're too kind, Mr. Moriya," Gus said, shaking hands. "Heard of Komina forever. Honor to collaborate here in Japan."
Polite vibes.
Business meetups always start with small talk.
Japan's courtesy game turned it into a five-minute bow-and-chat fest before Moriya gestured to the van. "Let's not talk here. Please, Gus-san, to your hotel."
Komina's empire was massive.
They called themselves a digital entertainment giant, but they dabbled in hotels, clubs, film, and more.
Exactly WindyPeak's future goal—a pan-entertainment hub, games at the core, with parallel industries raking in cash.
They chatted lightly on the drive, steering clear of game talk.
Ten minutes later, the convoy hit the Tokyo Bay InterContinental, right across from Komina's HQ.
A swanky four-star hotel, Komina's investment, with a deluxe executive suite prepped for Gus.
First day in Japan, jet-lagged to hell. No matter how eager Komina was, they wouldn't push him to start now.
Half-day breather.
That evening, Gus was invited to a welcome banquet thrown by Komina's top brass.
After a few drinks, Moriya leaned in. "We reviewed your P.T. demo proposal, Gus-san. It's mind-blowing."
Yesterday, post-shopping with Zoey, Gus had cranked out the P.T. plan in an afternoon.
Demo, short and sweet. With his system's help, it was quick—ten pages, done.
Moriya's team had pored over it last night and today, holding two rounds of talks.
Verdict? Absolute fire.
Horror games in this world leaned on turning fear into tangible threats—ghosts, monsters, in-your-face scares.
P.T. flipped that.
Sure, it had the deformed fetus, the ghost Lisa, but it went deeper—closed spaces, calculated scare points, cryptic metaphors, and trippy scene shifts. Fear wasn't just a monster; it was a psychological gut-punch, seared into players' heads.
Double-layered terror, body and mind.
Not some rookie designer's trick.
Even Kenji, Komina's veteran Game Division head, admitted: this demo alone crowned Gus the "Father of Psychological Horror."
It blew Komina's minds, doubling their faith in the IP.
Cue the flattery.
Moriya pressed: "So, for the main game, Gus-san, you sticking with this style, expanding the cryptic story?"
Gus nodded, then shook his head. "Style's locked in—it's the IP's vibe. Story? Not quite the same, or not fully."
What?!
Komina's table gasped, stunned.
What's Gus-san saying?
The main game ditches P.T.'s story? Or tweaks it?
Is P.T. just a demo-exclusive plot?
Is the real story bigger, deeper?
"Uh… sorry, Gus-san," Moriya raised a hand, confused. "Forgive my ignorance. Can you break it down?"
Chopsticks down, Komina's crew leaned in.
"Parallel," Gus said, holding up his chopsticks. "Like these."
"Silent Hill P.T. tells a murky murder case through puzzles. The main game kicks off with a murder too."
"I want these stories separate but…" Gus pinched the chopstick tips together. "Same endpoint."
Hiss—!
Gasps rippled, goosebumps everywhere.
Gus's idea was scarier than P.T.!
Madman!
Pure insanity!
They got it—game devs, all of them.
The demo's design was already wild.
But for Gus? Not wild enough.
Two parallel lines, one destination.
That structure's a beast!
To them, the demo could carry a full game. To Gus, it's just a teaser, separate from the main course.
P.T. nails psychological horror, tells a tight, cryptic tale, and stays distinct yet tied to the main game's arc.
It's like pulling a Neymar rainbow flick, weaving past seven defenders like Messi, and finishing with an Ibrahimovic volley.
Unreal.
Borderline impossible.
"This… this…" Moriya's scalp tingled.
He'd never heard a design this nuts!
Grinning, he stammered, "With respect, Gus-san, isn't this… too complex?"
Gus chuckled.
He knew Moriya wasn't asking about complexity but capability: Can you pull this off?
Gus's pitch screamed: I want it all.
A double-edged sword.
Nail it, and it's a new genre, a market-shaking demo.
Botch it, and it's a mess—safer to play it straight.
Gus was confident.
Not in himself, haha!
In Hideo Kojima.
And a little divine intervention.
"Relax, Mr. Moriya," Gus smiled. "The demo's rep will shape our main game's future."
Moriya exhaled.
Gus's confidence sealed it.
"We'll see what you've got, Gus-san." Moriya raised his glass, toasting.
Post-pitch, the vibe loosened.
Gus asked Moriya about Komina's side ventures and business philosophy.
WindyPeak's future? Bigger, stronger, multi-industry, like Komina.
Free expertise—why not soak it up?
Toasts flowed.
By ten, the banquet wrapped. Gus, tipsy, hit his suite for a shower.
Max was right—Zoey's toiletries kept her on his mind, nudging him to "report in."
Video call connected, Zoey picked up instantly, sprawled on the sofa, playing lazy fish.