November loomed.
Silent Hill P.T.'s development was wrapping up.
The demo hit final testing, with supervisors from each team taking a spin—not to "play" but to spot subtle issues for last-minute tweaks.
By this stage, devs are usually numb to their own game. No matter how gripping the plot, mind-bending the suspense, or gut-punching the jumpscares, months of daily replays breed apathy.
It's like a chef skipping the banquet they cooked or an animator ignoring their own cartoon.
So, testing's typically a blank-faced routine.
But P.T.? Different story.
Excluding Gus Harper, the P.T. team had eight supervisors: sharp Muneki Sato (planning), otaku Kazu Okura (programming), bubbly Yuki Kamikawa (art), plus two deputy managers under Sato and Okura, and one under Yuki.
Eight testers, taking turns.
They started cocky, ready to dissect the game with pro precision.
Result?
Eight went in. Shortest lasted two minutes, longest seven.
They emerged limp, legs like noodles, faces pale, drenched in cold sweat.
No dissecting. No focus.
They couldn't even keep their eyes open.
This wasn't just a horror game—it was a peek into Gus "Sam" Harper's twisted psyche.
The oppressive vibe crushed them. Some didn't even glimpse Lisa, the ghost. Two loops in the villa's tight corridor spiked their heart rates, choked their breath.
Yuki, head of art—handling original paintings, models, UI, scenes—cracked by round four.
Round four brings Lisa.
Yuki drew her, modeled her, yet meeting her in-game broke her. The somatosensory cabin's neural link kicked her out with a snap.
Hiss—the hatch opened.
Yuki, pale and dazed, sat silent for over thirty seconds.
Gus, worried, waved a hand. "Yuki, you okay?"
"Not… great," Yuki mumbled, throat bobbing, eyes shaky. "I'm thinking about something."
"What?" Gus leaned in.
Yuki's fear-fried brain rebooted. "The game says Lisa's husband, her killer, went nuts and got arrested. So who's the protagonist, 'me'? Why am I in this haunted house? Exploring? Solving a mystery? Investigating? Or… just here to die?"
Her rattled questions stunned the room.
Even Gus froze.
She was right.
P.T.'s demo never explains the protagonist's origin. No backstory, no motive—just a blank slate, a tool for the player.
Not laziness on Gus's part. In his past life, P.T.'s demo ended here, with no official version or protagonist details.
Gus figured a demo didn't need it, so he left it vague.
But Yuki's spark of inspiration hit like a warning shot.
Why would the protagonist enter this death trap?
Human actions need logic, even in games.
Since P.T.'s protagonist motive is a mystery, could they add a small easter egg to hint at their background without altering the core game?
Adventure? Mystery-solving? Investigation?
Gus pulled up a chair, intrigued. "Good catch. What identity makes sense?"
Supervisors exchanged glances.
Sato raised a hand. "Puzzle-solving's out. It'd bloat the story too much. P.T.'s meant to be a short, open-ended demo. That setup misleads players, shifts focus, and hurts the official version's rollout."
Nods all around. "Puzzle-solving" axed.
Okura chimed in. "Exploration's too shallow. It'd cheapen P.T.'s deep, psychological tone, making the horror feel trivial."
More nods. "Exploration" scrapped.
Gus shrugged. "So, investigation's our only shot?"
Everyone nodded, but Sato hesitated. "Doesn't that clash with the game? The villa murder's solved, killer's locked up…"
"Not just police investigate," Yuki cut in, shaking off her shock. "What if the protagonist's a journalist? One who chases weird, obscure stories? They hear about a haunted house in Silent Hill, a brutal case with a mad killer. Digging for the real story, they investigate."
Hiss—the team gasped.
Brilliant.
It clicked. The protagonist's logic, sorted.
Gus's jaw dropped at Yuki's idea.
Inspiration hit like a tidal wave.
Journalist!
A truth-chasing reporter, Miles Upshur, obsessed with uncovering dark secrets.
He gets a tip about Silent Hill's horrors, dives into the P.T. haunted house, relives cycles, pieces together clues.
After a nightmarish escape, Miles, thrilled, drives his jeep out of Silent Hill's fog, passing James—the Silent Hill protagonist—heading in to chase his dead wife's letter.
Miles? Off to Colorado.
Mount Massive Asylum.
"It's connected! It's all connected!" Gus's scalp tingled.
He leapt up, grabbed Yuki's head, and grinned. "Babe, you're freakin' genius!"
Two birds, one stone.
Yuki's idea gave P.T.'s protagonist a solid motive and planted an easter egg linking to another horror masterpiece—Outlast.
A WindyPeak original.
Gus's Silent Hill horror-king cred would boost their next project.
Other horror games might flop or lose cash.
Not Gus Harper's.
His games? Unstoppable.
This connection was pure gold.
Gus thrust out his hands. "High fives, team!"
The crew stared, baffled, as Gus bounced like he'd hit the jackpot.
They didn't get his Outlast epiphany, just saw him lose it over "journalist."
If Yuki weren't a girl, Gus might've kissed her.
But they rolled with it, slapping hands.
Snap, snap, snap—Gus high-fived everyone, ending with a big one for a blushing Yuki.
So… manly.
Yuki, still in the cabin, swooned. Gus's raw charisma was a spear to the heart.
How does Zoey live with this guy daily? I'm jealous!
Gus spun, clapping. "Team, working with you's been a blast. Thanks for the vibe. With P.T.'s festival debut close, this spark's lit a fire. Let's make P.T. perfect, Silent Hill legendary. Please, give it your all!"
He bowed slightly, earnest. "Onegaishimasu!"
The team stood, returning 90-degree bows. "Hai!"
Early November, winter's edge, evening.
A Navigator's headlights cut through Seattle traffic.
The car buzzed with chatter.
"You hit Akihabara? Heard it's wild!" Jake Rivers asked.
"What's Komina like? They make you draw ghosts daily?" Luke Bennett added.
"They call you 'sama'?"
"Japan's cutthroat, right? Overtime nonstop?"
Gus, in the back, chuckled. "Guys, slow down."
The Tokyo International Game Festival was days away.
Gus passed on Tetsuya Moriya's invite to stay, opting to head home between P.T.'s demo and full development.
Silent Hill wasn't Komina's main push, so Gus skipped the festival's opening press conference.
"I appreciate Moriya's offer, but I've got folks waiting back home. When Silent Hill's full dev starts, I'll return. We'll grab drinks then," Gus had said.
Moriya, reluctant, let him go, pending the official contract.
Luke and Jake, WindyPeak's brothers, picked Gus up at SeaTac.
They swapped stories: Luke and Jake on company updates—projects ticking along—Gus on Japan, P.T.'s progress, the Miles-to-Outlast easter egg, and Silent Hill's grand vision.
Family. No holding back.
"Holy crap!" Jake gushed. "That's huge! This could crown you horror game king!"
Luke nodded, then cautioned, "You didn't tell Komina about the main project or Outlast tie-in, right?"
"Nope," Gus grinned. "That stays with our core team. Komina's just outsourcing for now. We control the plan, or they'll swipe it and ditch us."
Gus, twice-lived, knew the industry's tricks.
P.T.'s Komina collab was smooth—Sato, Okura, Yuki were great—but Komina wasn't WindyPeak.
Japan wasn't home. Partners, not family.
Hold back where it counts.
The Navigator pulled into Riverside Heights' garage.
Engine off.
Jake grabbed Gus's half-empty suitcase.
"Let's grab dinner upstairs," Gus said.
Luke and Jake lit cigarettes, smirking, stepping back.
"Nah, man," Luke said. "What, we're your 2500-watt lightbulbs? Got enough for the electric bill?"
Gus flushed. "What're you on about? I'm serious!"
"Tomorrow," Jake laughed. "Today's… inconvenient. Luke's 'uncle' is visiting. No cold beers."
Luke shot Jake a really? look, then nodded. "Yup, uncle's here. No drinks. Catch you tomorrow."
They waved, cigarettes glowing, and strolled off.
Gus sighed, eyeing their smug exit. Shaking his head, he grinned, dragged his suitcase to the elevator, and hit his floor.
Deep breath. Fingerprint lock.
Beep—click.
The door swung open.
Pitch black. Lights off.
No one waiting.