The year was 2156. Humanity had advanced in many directions, but none as swiftly, as pervasively, and as transformatively as the universe of video games.
The world's cities now glowed like giant motherboards, neon networks, mirrored towers with three-dimensional screens broadcasting interactive trailers, epic real-time battles, and legendary avatars parading with the same prestige as movie stars of bygone eras. Between the avenues suspended by gravitational fields and the vertical solar energy parks, the most constant presence was that of gamers, connected, immersed, competing, or creating.
In this world, playing wasn't just leisure. It was culture. It was art. It was power.
Total virtual reality, or TVR, was no longer a concept. It was an extension of life. Game development had become one of the pillars of modern civilization, a blend of engineering, psychology, storytelling, design, and, above all, creativity.
Being a Game Designer, or World Architect, as they were popularly known, wasn't just a profession. It was a calling. A successful developer was revered like an elite surgeon, a supreme judge, or an international diplomat. In many circles, being a great game creator was more prestigious than being a president.
In every metropolis, there were monuments dedicated to gaming legends, men and women who created universes that saved lives, inspired revolutions, and healed trauma. Creators who had enchanted billions with their stories, challenges, and characters.
Game development was no longer a task of screens, code, and clicks. It was an immersive experience, realized within a hyperreal mental environment called SeedNet, accessed through three components: a neural USB flash drive, a SeedStation console, and synaptic reality goggles, a device that projected data directly into the user's thoughts, translating creative impulses into construction data.
Entering SeedNet was like entering a lucid dream, but infinitely more detailed. There, the developer shaped terrain, wrote scripts, programmed interactions, and drew every texture, every note of the soundtrack, every line of AI, all with the power of thought. The mind was the paintbrush. The game, the canvas.
Each project was fed by a supporting AI, which processed and organized the ideas, converting them into playable files that, upon completion, were processed by central servers and distributed to consoles, neural hubs, and remote access interfaces.
Most games were produced by large teams, each comprised of experts in interactive storytelling, emotional AI, particle physics, dynamic music, and even behavioral design psychologists. Everyone worked in sync within the same virtual space, dividing tasks as if they were building an entire city with collective thought.
But there were others. The loners. The legends.
Creators who mastered every field. Who, alone, inside their apartments lit by floating screens, created truly living worlds, complete games with such intense depth they seemed like parallel realities. These were the rarest of breeds, celebrated as geniuses, interviewed as philosophers, persecuted by studios and governments.
The Game Awards was the supreme event of modern culture. For over two centuries, it celebrated the world's best games, and over the last 80 years, it has evolved into an audiovisual spectacle broadcast in multi-reality, allowing each person to experience it in their own way.
Winning the Game Awards was more than just a trophy: it was achieving cultural immortality. It was having your name inscribed in the Hall of Creators, a globally revered database that records the greats of every era.
Even with all the advancements, creating realistic games with more believable humans remained the final barrier. The human mind is too complex, and even the best AIs still stumbled when trying to perfectly replicate human emotions. Therefore, many developers preferred more surreal worlds, fantastical creatures, alien civilizations, and magical legends. It was easier to model the impossible than to perfectly simulate the ordinary.
But those who tried, those who dared to create realistic experiences, human dramas, and authentic relationships, were seen as visionaries. If they failed, they were forgotten. But if they succeeded… they were immortalized.
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The city never slept. By day, the skyscrapers shone like celestial mirrors. At night, they became urban constellations, pulsing in sync with the data towers and digital creation hubs.
Neuron City was the jewel of the East Asian coast, a cultural and technological epicenter where reality and fiction intertwined daily.
And in the heart of this living city, among the thousands of intelligent buildings that seemed to breathe with their own light, was the headquarters of LUXCORE, one of the largest game development companies in modern history.
For 24-year-old Makoto Yoshida, being there still felt surreal.
He watched the city from below, from the suspended terminal of the East Cybernetic line, holding the cheap coffee he bought from a retrofuturistic vending machine. He wore his company name badge with a mixture of pride and resignation. A graduate in Interactive World Engineering from Kusanagi University, what he actually did at LUXCORE was... little.
Advertising games. Minigames for marketing campaigns. Sometimes, he helped fix system bugs in larger projects. Nothing that allowed him to put his soul into code, as he'd always dreamed.
Makoto had left home at 17, shortly after losing his father in an accident involving a neural transmission tower. His mother, having remarried a synthetic implant broker, seemed to have forgotten he existed. His stepfather tolerated him. His stepsister... barely spoke to him.
Since then, the only thing Makoto really had was his dream: to be a legendary game creator.
That afternoon, as he was tweaking textures for a mascot game for a neon fruit energy drink, Ren Tanaka glided into view in his rolling chair, as he always did.
"Makotooo... you haven't chosen the gender yet, have you?"
Makoto sighed, not taking his eyes off the code he was reviewing.
"I haven't even started."
"Man, the deadline is almost here! You know if you don't submit the initial proposal by the end of the month, you're done, right? Amano-senpai will chop your head off."
Makoto chuckled lightly. Sakura Amano was the supervisor of the beginner-level and mid-level developers. An extremely competent woman with a calm voice and an intimidating presence. She spoke little, but when she did... everyone listened.
"She reminded me earlier today. Again."
Ren leaned his arms on his desk, his eyes wide.
"Have you heard the rumor?"
"What kind of rumor?"
"Kenji Sasaki is participating in the program."
Makoto blinked. The name wasn't unfamiliar to him. He remembered the well-dressed, arrogant boy who always seemed to walk with his head held too high.
"That guy who came straight in as an average developer? He's barely out of college..."
"Exactly. Elite college. Son of one of the directors at LUXCORE. They say his father wants him to be promoted to senior soon, so he's going to use the program for that."
Makoto laughed.
"Well, with that surname, he could become a senior without even getting up from his chair."
Ren gave a crooked smile.
"Maybe. But if he make a good game, no one will be able to complain."
Makoto stared at the screen. Lines of code. Silly characters dancing for an energy drink. Not what he wanted to be doing.
"Ren... have you chosen the genre of your game yet?"
"Of course! Tactical RPG, with historical influences from the Edo Period. I'm doing everything in ukiyo-e style."
"This seems... extremely complicated."
"That's why I started early."
Ren winked.
"But what about you? What are you going to do?"
Makoto was silent. He had no idea.
LUXCORE's Original New Releases Program was a biannual initiative. It was a rare opportunity. All beginners and average developers were eligible to participate, but only the top ten games would be chosen for official release.
It was the fastest path to advancement within the company. Those who made the final list received internal recognition, bonuses, visibility, and, with luck, a promotion to senior developer. Some even secured funding to create original games with near-total freedom.
But to do so, it was necessary to overcome not only the creativity of the other participants, but also time, nervousness, and, for Makoto, doubt.
Sakura Amano appeared at that moment in the shared room. Tall, with long black hair tied in a minimalist bun, she held a holographic tablet.
"For those who still intend to participate in the program, remember: the deadline for submitting the initial project ends on the 26th of this month. No exceptions."
Her gaze flicked over Makoto briefly, as if she knew he was still stuck. He looked away.
"Good luck to everyone."
She completed, before leaving.
Ren patted his shoulder.
"If you don't do something now, you'll remain trapped in this hell of propaganda games."
Makoto sighed. He knew it. He knew it very well.
The problem was… what should he create?
Ren returned to his desk with typical excitement. His fingers danced on the touchpad as he immersed himself once again in the virtual world of his tactical RPG. Small 3D windows opened around him, displaying hand-painted tactical maps, stylized armored characters, and floating dialogue boxes.
Makoto, on the other hand, was nowhere near that level of creative clarity.
He finalized the final tweaks to the NoxBerry Sparkle! energy drink mascot game, a blue panda chasing cans while dodging floating lemons, and submitted it for validation. He closed the interface and took a deep breath. The main screen of his work console flashed with a notification from LUXCORE.
> 📬 Updated list of available genres
— Original Release Program —
Click to access
Makoto opened it.
A window of crystal-clear transparency appeared before his eyes. The list floated with elegant fluidity:
3D Platform
Narrative adventure
Metroidvania
Interactive puzzle
Open World Sci-Fi
Life simulator
Psychological horror
Isometric RPG
Romantic visual novel
Survival Horror
Real-time strategy
...
And then...
Makoto froze.
His eyes froze on those two words: Survival Horror.
At that moment, something broke inside him.
It was as if chains had been broken in his mind. As if an invisible prison he hadn't even known existed had been shattered. A sharp pain shot through his head, and he fell back in his chair, gasping for breath. He felt dizzy. The reality before him seemed to distort, as if the city itself had receded into the background, his mind attuned to something much larger.
And then came the memories.
Images.
Shouting.
Decadent scenarios.
Children lost in laboratories.
Cops in dark mansions.
Slow but relentless zombies.
Scientists gone mad.
Machiavellian corporations.
Raccoon City.
Resident Evil.
Like a tsunami of memories from a world that wasn't his, Makoto saw, not just saw, remembered, one of the greatest Survival Horror franchises ever created.
He knew everything.
Numbered games. Spin-offs.
The remake of 2. The dry terror of 7. The reimagining of 4.
The soundtracks. The scares. The struggles for survival.
Leon.
Jill.
Claire.
Chris.
Wesker.
Makoto gripped the edge of the table tightly. His fingers trembled. His dilated pupils reflected the screen.
He couldn't understand.
Why did he know this? Why did it feel like a part of him, when none of those memories existed in his world?
In fact... he was absolutely sure:
"Resident Evil" didn't exist anywhere on this planet.
Even as he processed everything, Makoto felt more. As if there were other memories, hidden behind other mental chains, ready to break, just waiting for a new trigger, a new word, a new genre.
But that could wait.
There, in that moment, faced with the word that awakened him, Makoto felt something he hadn't felt in a long time.
Creative hunger. Determination. A calling.
He knew exactly what he wanted to do. The genre was chosen. The concept, clear. And the game...
The game he would create could not be any other.
"Resident Evil..."
He whispered, as if pronouncing a sacred name.
Makoto quickly typed into the program interface:
> Chosen genre: Survival Horror
Provisional project name: Resident Evil
When he clicked "confirm." he felt a shiver run down his spine. It was as if he were breaking some unspoken rule of the universe.
But at the same time, Makoto felt like he was born to do this.
He wouldn't just create a game. He would bring to life an otherworldly legacy.
While Ren typed excitedly at his station and other employees exchanged ideas and synthetic coffees, Makoto Yoshida was silent, staring at the screen as if looking fate in the eye.
The deadline was ticking.
But for the first time since joining LUXCORE, Makoto knew exactly what he wanted to create.