Tetsuya Moriya wasn't upset about Komina's profit-driven decision to ditch WindyPeak Games. He despised Keizo Kamijo and Tsuna Yamamoto's petty secrecy, hiding the director swap from players. If they were bold, why dodge the truth? Tetsuya's verdict: small-minded.
His "accidental" like on the leak post was deliberate, forcing transparency. Keizo, furious but pragmatic, knew punishing Tetsuya would tank Komina further. Instead, he made Tetsuya their liaison to WindyPeak.
"President Kamijo apologizes for not notifying you promptly," Tetsuya told Gus Harper over the phone. "We'll issue a statement today and hope for future collaboration."
Gus sighed. "The split didn't hurt WindyPeak. You lost a historic IP. I respect your move, Tetsuya, but Komina's out for us. Maybe we'll work together personally someday."
Tetsuya laughed. "Thanks, Gus! You're a real one!" They hung up, Gus nodding. Tetsuya was sharp, just, and bold—a rare talent.
Zoey Parker, listening, gaped. "You were in Tokyo two months, and Yuki jumped ship, Sato joined, Okura ghosted, and Tetsuya backstabbed Komina? We sent you to collaborate, not flip their team!"
That night, at 7 p.m. San Francisco time, Komina posted on X: "Due to unforeseen issues, we regret ending our partnership with @WindyPeakGames. Silent Hill will be developed by Yamamoto Studio. We thank @SamHarper for P.T.'s thrilling world and will carry the psychological horror torch. We hope to collaborate again!"
Comments were disabled, except for WindyPeak. Gus replied: "@WindyPeakGames: Mountains stay, but water flows. See you around (smile)." The smile dripped sarcasm.
Then, Gus "accidentally" liked an X post in #SilentHill: a shirt reading, "I don't need sex! I fxxk KOMINA every day!" He unliked it after a minute, but screenshots spread. Players lost it.
"Sam's savage!" "That smile's pure shade!" "He liked that but not Komina's post!" "WindyPeak's fake chill, Sam's real chaos!" "Fxxk KOMINA!" "Remake Silent Hill as something else, Sam—I'm buying!"
Zoey, scrolling X on her couch, sighed. Outlast was under wraps to avoid Komina's interference, but this backlash could make it a hit. Her 100x rebate system thrived on losses, but players' Fxxk KOMINA rage might fuel Outlast sales, risking profits. Time for Plan B.
A week earlier, at the Global Tech Hub in San Francisco, Ethan Camron, PacificTech's new chair, hosted a Charity Week meeting. Reps from Zenith Studios, Fury Games, and others gathered to plan the February event. Charity Week bundled classic games, donating 10–15% of profits. It was a no-brainer for vendors—no mobilization needed.
Ethan spoke. "Beyond bundles, we're calling for new charity games to boost engagement and align with charity laws." Reps froze. New games meant costs, with platforms taking 30–35% and donations eating 10–15%. Indies like Zenith or WindyPeak would barely profit.
Zoey's eyes lit up. Low profits? Perfect for her rebate system. She pinged her system mentally. "Making charity games isn't against the rules, right?"
[Correct. Charity projects use a 1% rebate on donated amounts, not profit-loss calculations.]
Zoey frowned. Donating $1M yielded $10K—decent but low. Still, using company funds for her personal gain felt sneaky. At the meeting, she stayed quiet, as did others.
Now, with Komina's reputation crumbling, Zoey saw her chance. Their "bucket" was leaking hype, while Outlast could ride the #FxxkKOMINA wave. To ensure losses, she'd launch a charity game.
"Gus!" Zoey called, handing him water as he jogged on the treadmill. "Charity Week's got a new twist."
"Charity?" Gus slowed, sipping. "Ethan's event?"
"Yup," Zoey grinned. "Listen up, Mr. Harper…"