Gus Harper froze, then stepped inside and flicked on the light.
He peeked under the shoe cabinet, sniffed the air, and fought back a grin.
After rolling his suitcase into the living room, he sauntered to the water dispenser, grabbed a glass, and raised his voice like he was on a stage:
"Holy crap, I'm beat! Busting my ass for this company!"
"Out there in the rain, grinding in Japan!"
"And what do I get? No welcome party, no food... hold up!"
Mid-rant, Gus stopped dead.
"Is that... food I smell?"
"No way, did some fairy chef sneak in?"
"Eh, whatever! I'm overthinking it."
"Guess I'll crash first, order takeout later. Ugh!"
With that, Gus strutted toward his bedroom.
But then!
From behind the kitchen island, a figure popped up—Zoey Parker, sporting a messy bun, clutching a bouquet of flowers, and trying not to crack up.
"Why so extra, dude?" she teased.
"Whoa!"
Gus spun around, feigning shock.
"The fairy chef herself! Quick, gotta snap this!"
Like a magician, he whipped out a Polaroid camera from behind his back.
Click! He aimed at Zoey.
As the photo developed, Gus pinched the edge and gave it a shake. In the shot, Zoey stood behind the island, flowers in hand, looking stunned yet radiant, like a blooming daffodil.
"Polaroid!" Zoey's eyes lit up. "How'd you know I wanted one?!"
She'd never mentioned it to Gus. She'd planned to grab one when he got back to capture their moments together. But somehow, he'd nailed it, bringing one back from Japan!
"Huh? I didn't," Gus admitted, genuinely surprised.
He'd racked his brain for a gift for Zoey. She was born with a silver spoon—jewelry and fancy stuff weren't her vibe. Noticing they'd never taken photos together despite all their hangouts, he picked the camera, figuring girls usually dig that stuff.
Worried she might think it was basic, he was stoked to see her reaction.
Zoey nudged the bouquet on the counter, darted over, and reached for the camera. Gus, channeling advice from his buddy Luke Bennett—"Man, you gotta make a move"—hoisted the camera high, teasing her to grab it. With his other hand, he gently pulled her close.
"A friendly hug," Gus chuckled, whispering, "...missed you like crazy."
Whoa, what?!
Zoey's brain short-circuited.
His heartbeat thumped against her, his low voice melting her defenses. Her face went from pink to fire-engine red, ears burning.
No, no, no! What's happening?!
This guy's never this bold!
Foul! Total foul!
In Zoey's mind, Gus was always chill, a bit reserved. He'd joke around but turn into a wooden plank when it came to feelings—either clueless or playing dumb. It was gentlemanly but left a gap between them, an invisible wall she'd been itching to break.
Now, with Gus taking charge, her whole body buzzed. His heartbeat felt like a wildfire, intense and magnetic. Zoey, usually the bold one, turned into a kitten caught by the scruff.
Thankfully, Gus kept the hug brief, letting her keep a shred of composure.
"I... uh..." Zoey stammered, grabbing the Polaroid. Her hands flailed, pointing to the kitchen, then the bathroom, like a confused traffic cop.
"I'm gonna wash up... cook you some noodles..."
"Oh, and the takeout's in the kitchen. Set it up in the dining room, 'kay?"
She bolted to the bathroom, cranked the faucet, and splashed cold water on her face.
Can't handle this! Too much!
Her mind raced from PG to R-rated in a flash. Electronic heartthrob! Who survives this?!
She dialed the water to arctic levels, trying to cool off.
Close call. Almost botched the welcome dinner...
Three days later, Japan, Tokyo International Game Festival, West Hall 1.
The place was a zoo!
The massive 160,000-square-foot hall hosted nearly 600 game devs, 1,000 booths, and over 200,000 visitors. Gamers, journalists, streamers, and critics from every corner of the globe swarmed the place, hyped for the event.
The hottest spot? Komina's booth.
As a global giant with local roots, Komina owned the floor—biggest booth, prime spot, top billing. The crowd was electric, buzzing with noise.
At the Yakuza demo area, a somatosensory pod hissed open. Out stepped a blond guy, mid-20s, with sharp brows, deep-set eyes, and a meticulously trimmed beard. His hoodie sported the UTube logo, with a cartoon version of himself—big head, tiny body, headset on, controller in hand, looking spooked.
This was no random dude. The crowd outside the demo zone lost it.
"Pew?!"
"No way, it's actually Pew!"
"Sign my shirt, man! I've been subbed forever!"
"How's Yakuza? Spill!"
Yup, this was Pew, the 26-year-old Swedish gaming streamer with 89 million YouTube followers. Known for killer live streams and slick videos, he raked in $15.5M last year from streams and ads, with a single promo costing $450K. In gaming circles, he was a legend—bigger than some celebs.
Pew, at the festival as a guest streamer for YouTube, grinned, signing autographs while chatting: "Yakuza? Pretty much what I expected... maybe even exactly what I wanted. Wild gunfights, neon-soaked Yakuza vibes, crazy car chases. The demo delivers. Solid stuff."
A reporter with a mic piped up, "Score it. What's the demo get?"
Pew hesitated, scratching his neck. "I shouldn't rate unfinished games, but... 8/10. It's got what I pictured."
Another voice shouted, "Yo, Pew! What about Silent Hill P.T.? How's it stack up?"
"P.T...." Pew paused, lips pursed, thinking hard. "It's my most hyped game here, but also the one I'm least hopeful for."
His words carried weight, reflecting the global slump in horror games. Pew cut his teeth on horror, loving the genre's raw impact—perfect for streams with jump scares and screams. But horror games had been slipping since the PC days. Somatosensory pods gave them a brief boost, but stale plots and cheap shocks dragged them back down.
Pew sighed, "I respect Sam Harper. His Titanfall? Best FPS I've played. Pure art. I bawled for two hours streaming it. If he was making an FPS with Komina, I'd be all in. But a horror game? A new IP? Phasmophobia was great, but if P.T.'s just that level, it won't touch Yakuza."
His take was fair. P.T. had buzz, but few truly believed in it. The Yakuza demo area was packed, a line snaking three loops deep with 30 pods. P.T.'s corner? Half as many people, maybe 10 pods, and the line moved fast. Players were in and out in three to five minutes, some clutching their chests, pale, or gagging as friends helped them out.
What's wrong with this game? Pew wondered. Sam Harper's work shouldn't be this bad. Even a Phasmophobia rehash wouldn't tank like this.
Curiosity piqued, Pew waved politely. "Alright, folks, I'm hitting P.T. next. Mind clearing a path? Thanks!"
Fans and reporters parted. Some stuck with Yakuza's line, but most trailed Pew to the P.T. zone, eager for his live reaction. Horror fans in the P.T. queue recognized him and let him skip ahead. In minutes, he was at the front.
The pod hissed open. Pew took a deep breath, climbed in, and grinned, "Thanks, everyone. Let's dive into game two—Silent Hill P.T.. Hope it doesn't flop too hard. Here we go!"
The pod sealed shut.
The game began.