As Gus Harper's voice settled, a soft piano melody filled the room. Two simple notes, woven with a gentle concerto, flowed like a quiet stream. Like a lighthouse's flicker, moonlight on a river, or whispers between lovers. A story told with raw heart.
"Wow," Zoey Parker breathed, stunned.
She hadn't expected Gus to go all out. Beyond the project framework, he'd crafted the game's cover and soundtrack.
"This song's gorgeous," Zoey said, sliding beside Gus on the couch, hugging her knees. She nudged his shoulder. "What's it called?"
"For River," Gus replied.
"Forever?" Zoey nodded, soaking in the soothing piano. "You write it?"
"Nah," Gus grinned. "Outsourced the music."
He was lying. For River came with the game, unlocked in his system. He could've claimed credit, but his music skills—barely reading basic notation—made boasting risky. So, he credited "Void Outsourcing."
Gus stretched, grabbed a document from his briefcase, and handed it to Zoey. "Paper version. I'll email the digital one. I'm crashing—you study it."
"Real thoughtful, Mr. Harper," Zoey teased, patting his shoulder. "You say no, but your body's all in."
"Whoa!" Gus jumped. "What kinda dirty talk is that?"
"Oh?" Zoey smirked, hopping up, hooking his chin. "Shy, little guy? Gimme a smile."
Gus wasn't having it. He grabbed her hand, pulling her off balance. Zoey, perched on the couch, yelped, stumbling. Gus caught her waist, waltz-style, and pinched her chin. "What if I don't smile?"
Zoey flushed, eyes darting. "Then… you smile for me?"
The next day, in PacificTech's San Francisco office, Ethan Camron, the new chairman, sat frowning. Across his desk, Zach Nolan, his assistant from the WindyPeak visit, reported on Charity Week.
It wasn't great. A week after Ethan's charity game pitch, no studio had signed up. Not one call. His first big event as chairman, a bold Charity Week innovation, was flopping.
"Rough start," Ethan muttered, puffing his vape, exhaling a cloud.
He got why studios hesitated. Platforms took 30–35% of game revenue, and Charity Week demanded 10–15% donations. Why make a new game when you could sell normally, then bundle it later for charity? Ethan had promised $5M in promotion—industry and mainstream media—but big studios weren't biting. Split across participants, $5M was pocket change, and studios might need to fund extra marketing themselves.
"Not worth it," Ethan sighed, dousing his vape. "What now?"
He eyed the phone. "Call studios?"
Zach winced. "Chairman, that's… desperate."
PacificTech led the global gaming industry. Studios chased them. Begging was beneath them.
"Times change," Ethan said. "We need studios' support. PacificTech's mission is a thriving industry. We gotta bend sometimes."
Zach, impressed by Ethan's humility, handed over the phone. "Who first?"
"IndieVibe," Ethan decided, avoiding Nebula Games' crowd.
"WindyPeak?" Zach suggested. "Zoey and Gus are sharp, responsible. You invited them personally. They might bite."
Ethan nodded, reaching for Zoey's number. But before he could dial, the phone rang—Zoey Parker.
"No way," Ethan gasped, picking up. "Zoey! What's up?"
He didn't dare slack with her. Beyond Walter Parker's clout, WindyPeak's industry cred was massive. Why call now?
"After talks," Zoey said, "WindyPeak's in. We're making a charity game for Charity Week, doing our part for good causes."
Ethan nearly leapt from his chair. Before I even called?! "For real?"
"Totally," Zoey laughed. "WindyPeak doesn't prank PacificTech."
Ethan's face lit up, blooming like a flower. "Awesome! What's the game?"
"Pixel-style story-driven game," Zoey said, hesitating. "We wanted bigger, but Outlast's in progress, so…"
"No way!" Ethan cut in. "Your support's huge, Zoey. Size doesn't matter—your heart's what counts."
"Thanks, Ethan," Zoey chuckled, relieved. "One more thing. Since it's small-scale, low budget, the price won't be high. Donations might be low, so we're giving all Charity Week sales to charity."
Ethan shot up, eyes wide. All sales?! Not profits?! "Zoey, that's… you sure? That could lose you money."
"Wild charity," Ethan blurted, coining the term.
Damn! Other studios mixed charity with PR. WindyPeak was all in—self-funded game, full sales donated. True heart.
Ethan was floored. This was responsibility, vision, a model for the industry. With studios like WindyPeak, gaming's future was bright.
On the other end, Zoey scratched her head, nervous. Did I overdo it? She just wanted bigger donations for her rebate system. To the Moon's $500K budget was pocket change—she needed those rebates.
Ethan sighed, awed. "Zoey, your heart's unreal. WindyPeak's a role model. PacificTech's got your back—whatever you need, globally, just say it."
They swapped pleasantries and hung up. Ethan waved at Zach. "Get Finance. Start the $5M promotion approval."
"How much?" Zach asked.
"All of it," Ethan said.
Zach blinked. "Split with others?"
"Split?" Ethan laughed. "WindyPeak's in. The $5M's theirs. Others didn't show. Let's go big—wild charity deserves wild promotion."
Ethan puffed his vape, grinning. "Zach, we lead the industry. We bend, but we also stand tall."
Zach marveled. No wonder he's chairman. Bold as hell.