Tetsuya Moriya, second only to Komina's president, wasn't someone Keizo Kamijo would alienate for Tsuna Yamamoto. As a businessman, Kamijo knew to appease his managing director.
After a half-hour secret talk, Moriya relented to Kamijo's insistence.
A week later, Yuki Kamikawa sat in a tea bar below Komina's Tokyo office, staring at her peach oolong tea. Komina was developing Silent Hill alone.
Yuki, P.T.'s chief artist, knew Yamamoto's draft couldn't match Sam Harper's vision. At a team dinner, Sam had shared Silent Hill's potential: surface and inner worlds, either parallel dimensions or material versus spiritual realms. The spiritual world reflected unfulfilled desires, intertwining with the material. "Redemption sets the tone," he'd said, "building a worldview—its origins, formation, secrets. If Komina backs me, this could be a legendary series."
Yuki felt Sam's vision could make Silent Hill a horror icon. Now, Kamijo and Yamamoto replaced it with a mediocre plan, banking on P.T.'s hype for profit.
"This is just…" Yuki shook her head, bitter.
"Still hesitating?" Muneki Sato sipped green tea beside her, referencing the Silent Hill confidentiality agreement they'd soon sign.
With Kamijo's backing, Yamamoto fast-tracked Silent Hill's development post-Tokyo International Game Festival. Today, they'd finalize the team and start work.
"It's too fast," Yuki sighed. "One week—WindyPeak's out, project's on. It feels like a dream. Keeping WindyPeak in the dark? Like we're thieves stealing Sam's work."
Sato chuckled. "No need to feel it. We are thieves—stealing P.T.'s player buzz, Sam's sapling. Legally fine, morally rotten."
Yuki gave a wry smile. "So blunt, Sato-senpai. Why's Komina doing this? Silent Hill could be a horror benchmark under Sam, a profitable series long-term."
Sato nodded. "For a game company, sure. But Komina's not that, and Kamijo's no game president. To him, games are products, developers are cogs. Silent Hill's just an asset."
He sipped tea. "Kamijo's 58, retiring in two years per company rules. He wants quick wins."
Yuki sighed. Sato, "Smart Sato," had seen Komina ditch producers and cancel projects. If Kamijo valued quality or teams, Silent Hill wouldn't have languished, and TeamSilent wouldn't have disbanded. It could've been a global horror icon.
Sato didn't care. A planner, an employee, he worked for pay, not strategy.
"So, wise Sato-senpai?" Yuki asked. "We're signing this agreement, developing Silent Hill behind WindyPeak's back. Komina's stalling them, milking hype while guarding against them repurposing Silent Hill."
Yuki admired Sam and WindyPeak but valued her hard-earned Komina job. A tough choice.
Sato coughed. "Yuki, advice: closed meeting rules and confidentiality agreements aren't negotiable. Stay at Komina, don't play both sides—unless you're done with the gaming industry."
Yuki froze. A spark hit. "Unless?"
Sato smiled. "My dad's gone, mom's in Britain, I'm single. No ties."
Yuki grinned, getting it. "Let's sit. I've got a call."
"Go ahead," Sato said. "It won't shock him."
"Why?" Yuki raised an eyebrow.
"He's no naive rookie," Sato said, sipping tea. "If I'm wrong, tea's on me."
Yuki dialed. Zoey Parker answered, bubbly. "Yuki! I was about to call!"
"Zoey, I've got something serious. About Sam and Silent Hill."
Zoey laughed. "Funny, Sam told me to call you."
Sam's voice came on. "Hey, Yuki. You first."
Yuki hesitated, glancing around the empty tea bar. "It's complicated, but Komina's developing Silent Hill solo."
Silence. Then Sam, calm, amused: "That's it?"
Yuki blinked, stunned. "Wait, you're not shocked?"
In WindyPeak's Seattle office, Sam smirked. A week ago, at the festival's close, he'd sensed trouble. Parker Capital's legal team sent Komina a Silent Hill contract pre-festival, expecting a quick sign. Komina stalled—policy excuses, legal tweaks, promo revisions.
Sam told Zoey the deal was likely dead. Komina, greedy from P.T.'s hype, wanted to cut WindyPeak's 30% share.
Zoey had been floored. Sam just smiled. Komina was Konami—predictably greedy. Good thing he had a backup plan.