The prototype was already working.That, in theory, should have been enough.
But it wasn't.
At first, there were only small adjustments. Changes I could justify as technical corrections: animation timings, memory consumption, screen transitions. Nothing that sounded ambitious.
Without realizing it, I started arriving earlier.I turned on the PC-98 before the others arrived and turned it off after they left. Not because anyone asked me to, but because leaving things unfinished began to bother me.
The system was solid, but empty.Aoi survived.She ate.She slept.She waited.
And I began to wonder if that was all.
"What if there's something more on the island?" I said one day, almost unintentionally.
Mori looked up.
"More danger?"
"No," I replied.
"More context."
The idea of the ruins arose this way.Remains of an ancient civilization. Unexplained. Not important for winning. Small stone structures hidden among the vegetation. They didn't give immediate resources, but they sparked curiosity.
"They don't have to serve any purpose," I said.
"They just have to exist."
Implementing them was not simple. New tilesets. New collisions. Memory adjustments. Each ruin took space from something else.
Still, I kept insisting.
Broken journals were added. Illegible fragments. Symbols that didn't match any known language. Nothing translated. Nothing clarified.
"Isn't it confusing?" asked Sato.
"A little," I replied.
"Like the island."
The survival system also changed.Small rewards were added. Discovering a ruin temporarily reduced fatigue consumption. Sleeping near certain places gave subtle bonuses. Not explicit.
Nothing was announced.The player had to feel it.
I began testing the game over and over. Not to break it, but to see how it felt. Each time something pulled me out of the experience, I wrote it down.
I wasn't thinking about sales.I wasn't thinking about the market.I was thinking about Aoi.About whether she would feel alone.About whether the player would understand that the island wasn't just an obstacle, but a place that had existed before her.
Kisaragi noticed it.
"You're getting too involved," he said one night.
It didn't sound like a reproach.
"Maybe," I replied.
I didn't stop.
I added rare events: footprints that disappeared when returning, structures only visible at sunset, distant sounds with no clear origin.
Nothing supernatural.Just suggestive.
The game began to feel alive.Not technically better.Emotionally better.
One day, after a long testing session, I stayed staring at the screen without moving the character.Aoi was breathing.The sea moved.The sun lowered.
And I felt something uncomfortable.
I wanted it to turn out well.Not as a project.Not as a product.As an experience.
It was the first time since waking up in this world that I wasn't simply doing what I was supposed to do.I was making an effort.
And not because anyone demanded it, but because, without realizing it, I had begun to care.