Numb.
Not just Cody Black. Every player brave enough to reach this point and every viewer watching online was frozen.
The dim, flickering hall light went out. Lisa's ghostly figure vanished.
Darkness swallowed the corridor. Only a hollow hum and Lisa's eerie, 360-degree sobbing echoed, seeping from every shadow.
Nothing happened.
Yet no one dared move.
Lisa was gone, melted into the black. But her chilling sobs wove through the darkness, an invisible net strangling players' hearts.
Ahead was a pitch-black abyss. Blindfolded.
Where was Lisa? No one knew.
Maybe she'd vanished. Maybe she stood under the hall chandelier, in that twisted pose, waiting. Or maybe she was inching closer, her bloated, one-eyed face inches away, unseen.
One step forward, and you'd bump into her.
God-tier psychological horror. No cheap jump scares—just a light switch flipped off, and fear clawed your soul.
"Shit!" Cody Black screamed, rooted in place. A chill shot through him, every hair standing on end. His breathing hitched, voice cracking like he might cry.
The Twitch chat exploded:
"Holy crap!"
"Sam Harper, you monster!"
"Too freakin' scary!"
"Cold sweats, man!"
"Expected a jump scare, not lights out!"
"Darkness is danger everywhere."
"Sam's maxed out psych horror!"
"I'm not worthy to watch this."
"Sorry, Sam, I doubted the demo's scariness."
"Lisa, I was wrong, don't cry!"
"Sam, chill, I need to pee in peace."
"Turn around mid-pee, bam, Lisa's at the door."
"You're not human!"
"Breathe, guys, it's just a stream."
Lights out. Power cut. One design choice unleashed pure terror.
Cody exhaled shakily. "Sorry, guys. Phasmophobia was my limit. This is too much. I'm stuck, can't move, don't wanna play."
The somatosensory pod kept him safe from physical harm, but Cody feared lasting mental scars. One step toward Lisa could haunt his dreams for a month.
The pod didn't kick him out—his fear was psychological, not physical. He could quit, but bailing felt weak.
Deep breath. "One last push!" he shouted, trembling. "I'm charging in, don't care what's there! Let's go!"
"Ahhh!" Cody closed his eyes, swung his fists, and ran forward like a runaway truck, yelling nonsense.
Chat lost it:
"Autobots, transform! Dump truck mode!"
"Young Master's gonna kill it!"
"He's babbling, haha!"
"Was scared, then Cody's howl fixed me."
"Lisa: 'This guy's scarier than me!'"
Boom!
Cody slammed into a wall, gasping. He opened his eyes.
Lisa's crying stopped. The chandelier flicked on. Cockroaches swarmed the floor and walls, crawling over his feet.
No other sounds.
"Holy crap!" Cody leaned against a hall cabinet, panting. "My fingers are numb."
His voice was hoarse from screaming.
Ding! Respiratory rate exceeded. Disconnecting for your safety.
Not a scare this time—just exhaustion from surviving. Kicked out four times in seven minutes, Cody needed a break, even with his quick mental recovery.
Others kept exploring the villa. Thrill-seekers, rival devs hunting horror secrets, and unlucky media reviewers like Alex Quinn.
What had Alex done to deserve this?
At a new corridor loop, Alex panted heavily. That last scene rewrote his understanding of horror games. Not just scary—it was genius.
P.T. and Yakuza, both Komina titles, were worlds apart. Yet Alex, a seasoned reviewer, saw Sam Harper, a two-year industry newbie, outshine veteran Tsuna Yamamoto in demo design.
Alex had played Yakuza's demo. Like Pew, he found it solid—gunfights, racing, Yakuza culture, all polished. Tsuna Yamamoto nailed player expectations, splitting the demo into three parts: shooting, racing, and cultural vibes. Safe, no risks, just execution. Alex scored it 9.2–9.5.
But P.T.? It was at a disadvantage—less budget, less hype, a shunned genre. Yakuza players knew they wanted action. P.T. players? They only knew they hated clichéd jump scares, with no clear desires.
Designing P.T. was like groping in the dark. Even veterans would struggle. But Sam Harper? He didn't just meet the challenge—he redefined it.
He didn't chase player wants. He set the standard, bold and arrogant, declaring: This is what you need. His demo's pacing—slow dread to lights-out terror—gripped players' nerves. P.T. matched Yakuza's strengths and surpassed its limits.
Sam Harper was a chosen one, a genius designer.
Alex leaned against the corridor wall, heart racing, goosebumps rising. The more he thought about Sam, the scarier it got.
He steadied himself, heart rate dipping. Through the darkening corridor, he peeked into the hall.
His pulse spiked again.
The hall was black. Lisa's cries were gone, but a baby's wail took over, chillingly real.
To Alex's right, the blood-soaked room—where Lisa's arm appeared—was wide open.
"Damn you, Sam!" Alex cursed.
He'd pegged this room as the crime scene, but Sam's design was inhuman. Fresh off the lights-out terror, he flung the door open, taunting: Think that was scary? Step inside for more.
Twisted.
Alex pictured Sam smirking behind a screen, relishing players' screams. A total psycho.
Cautiously, he approached the blood-reeking door. A flashlight flickered on the floor.
By its strobing light, Alex saw it: mosaic tiles, an old sink, a grimy mirror, a filthy toilet, a torn shower curtain, and a half-hidden bathtub.
A damn bathroom.