Chapter 2: The First Plan
It was a strange feeling.
Ash had spent most of his adult life calculating the cost of everything. Before every purchase—tea stall snacks, phone data, monthly rent—there was always a quick pause: "Can I really afford this?"
But today, as he opened a tab for fiberO and searched for "2D game developer," that mental habit flickered and disappeared.
[Creative Balance: ৳∞]
Still there. Still real.
It felt too good to trust.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the screen. If this system was real—and by all signs, it was—he needed to think smart. He couldn't just throw money around on flashy ideas and hope people watched. This was a new channel. No subscribers. No credibility. The internet didn't care about potential.
He needed something that worked.
The Utube trends came to mind—comparisons, challenges, outrageous titles. Not fake drama, but the kind of absurd contrast that made people click without thinking.
That's when the memory came back.
That one video. $10 vs $100 vs $1000 Voiceover. The simplicity, the structure, the way viewers were curious from the start.
Ash opened a notepad and typed:
Creepy Crap – Video 1 Idea
– Title: "$10 vs $100 vs $1000 2D Game Challenge"
– Concept: Hire three game devs with three budgets. Let them make a small 2D platformer. Compare results.
– Structure: Intro > Game 1 ($10) > Game 2 ($100) > Game 3 ($1000) > Reactions > Final thoughts
He paused, thinking.
It needed more flavor. Just gameplay comparison would be too dry. People liked humor. They liked surprises.
He added:
– Voiceover tone: Light sarcasm, curious, a little weird
– No facecam. Use system's hologram avatar.
– Add quirky background music. Use royalty-free tracks.
– Use a fake logo intro: "Creepy Crap – Making Trash Look Expensive"
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. This could work.
He searched fiberO again, more carefully this time. The first few pages were filled with flashy profiles claiming "PRO DEVELOPER – DELIVERY IN 24HRS!!!" but Ash scrolled past them. Too risky.
He filtered by "Completed Orders" and looked for mid-level developers with real reviews.
The system chimed quietly in his ear.
[Auto-fund enabled for selected freelancers. No manual transaction needed.]
Good. That saved time.
After an hour of research, he chose his three.
A beginner student from Dhaka offering simple 2D games for $10.
A mid-range developer from Vietnam with decent assets and animations for $100.
A professional indie team from Ukraine with polished designs, offering premium builds at $1000.
Ash wrote detailed briefs for each:
"I need a short 2D game (2–3 minutes playable) with basic movement, a start and end point, and one twist—like a weird boss, exploding platform, or something unexpected. Style can be pixel or vector. Don't overcomplicate. Just make it weird, fun, and unique."
He hit "Send Request."
The system confirmed the orders with a subtle blink.
[Order Confirmed: Delivery in 2–5 Days]
[Production Budget Spent: $1110]
[No deductions from personal funds]
Ash leaned back in his chair. He stared at the wall.
It was quiet again. But not heavy like before. This silence was… peaceful.
He stood, walked to the small balcony of his flat, and looked out over the neighborhood. A cat slept under the rickshaw downstairs. Two kids passed by kicking a plastic bottle like a football. Someone on the floor above was watering their plants.
Just regular life.
It reminded him of why he didn't want to show his face. Why he didn't want to be recognized.
Fame brought questions. Expectations. Attention. He didn't want that. He didn't want people thinking he got lucky, or worse—feeling sorry for him. He just wanted to create.
Let the world see the work. Not the man behind it.
He returned to his room and began writing the voiceover script.
Intro lines:
"So I had a stupid idea—what if I paid three random game devs to make games with wildly different budgets? Would the $10 guy surprise me? Would the $1000 guy bankrupt me emotionally? Let's find out."
Ash chuckled softly.
The voice in his head still sounded like his own. But in the final video, the system would change it—filter it into something smoother, more anonymous. Something that wasn't tied to the guy who worked in a cubicle with a flickering fan and a boss who forgot his name every week.
This version of Ash—this digital mask—could be anyone.
The next few hours passed quietly. He edited the script, designed a mock thumbnail using free images, and scribbled future ideas in a notebook.
It was the most focused he had felt in months.
Not happy, exactly. But steady.
He knew the video might flop. That no one might watch it. That he'd be buried under a hundred reaction channels and prank skits.
But even if it failed, he'd still have made something.
And for now, that was enough.
End of Chapter 2