The soft scratch-scratch of my stylus against the tablet was the only sound in my room, a rhythm that always helped me think. I was deep in the zone, inking the finer details of a mecha's hydraulic joint for my latest Evangelion-inspired manga page. The world outside, with all its noise and chaos, had faded into a pleasant buzz.
Then, Sunday's voice, smooth as polished glass, cut through the focus. It wasn't an intrusion; more like a gentle overlay on my reality.
"[Sir, I have a preliminary summary of the post-stream metrics. The growth parameters for both the Sael VT and Meteor Studio channels have exceeded all projected models.]"
"Mhmm," I murmured, not looking up from a particularly tricky bit of shading.
"That's good." My brain was still 90% in the cockpit of a fictional robot.
"[The Sael VT channel has accrued two point one billion subscribers. The Meteor Studio channel is currently at two point three billion.]"
The stylus froze mid-stroke. A tiny, perfect dot of digital ink bloomed on the screen where I'd stopped. I slowly leaned back in my chair, the leather creaking under my weight.
"Run those numbers by me again, Sunday… Slower." I knew what she'd said. I just wanted to hear the absolutely ludicrous figures one more time.
"[Certainly. Two point one billion. And two point three billion. Respectively.]"
A slow, disbelieving grin spread across my face. "Holy shit." The words came out in a breathy laugh. Billions. With a 'B'. In a matter of days. My old self would have sold a kidney for a fraction of that attention. My new self just felt a warm, expansive glow of pure, unadulterated victory.
Sunday, ever the efficient one, continued without missing a beat. "[Concurrently, sales for 'Silent Hill: First Fear' have increased by five hundred and twelve percent since the stream's conclusion. A notable anomaly has been detected within the sales data: seventeen percent of all purchases in the last forty-eight hours have been bulk orders from corporate entities. Thundra Corp, AE Games, and Jonami account for eighty-three percent of these transactions.]"
That cut through the celebratory fog. I put the stylus down. "Bulk orders? Like… how many copies are we talking? Why would a game company buy a bunch of copies of someone else's game?"
"[The average bulk purchase consists of one thousand to five thousand units per transaction,]" Sunday clarified, her tone utterly neutral, as if reporting the weather.
"[My analysis of their internal communications indicates a coordinated strategy. These corporations have contracted with top-tier speedrunning and professional gaming teams. The objective is to acquire a volume of copies for these teams to dissect the game's code, mechanics, and narrative progression with maximum efficiency.]"
I blinked. Then, a snort escaped me. Then, I was full-on laughing, a real, from-the-gut sound that echoed in my quiet room. "You've got to be kidding me. They're buying thousands of copies of my game… to try and beat it faster? Why? So, they can say they did?"
"[The primary motivation appears to be market clearance,]" Sunday explained.
"[Thundra Corp has a new horror title, 'Memoir of the Dead,' slated for release in eleven weeks. Jonami and NetTrouble have similar projects in their pipelines. Their internal assessments conclude that the market's appetite for horror is currently saturated by your product. By funding a rapid, public 'solving' of Silent Hill, they intend to diminish its long-tail engagement and cultural hold, thereby creating a vacuum for their own titles to fill.]"
She paused for a microsecond. "[A secondary, though equally driving, motive is your stated condition for releasing 'Space Marine.' They are attempting to expedite the fulfillment of that condition to schedule their own major releases outside of its projected launch window. They are attempting to avoid direct competition.]"
I laughed again, shaking my head. It was so pathetic it was almost admirable. They weren't trying to make a better game. They weren't even trying to compete. They were trying to run away. They wanted to clean up the mess I'd made so they could have their little party after I'd left. Sunday, in her own way, agreed.
"Their strategy is fundamentally reactive…. They are not innovating; they are attempting to mitigate… It is a clear indication that they are operating from a position of weakness, not strength."
I leaned back, lacing my fingers behind my head and staring at the ceiling. The initial amusement settled into a deep, profound sense of satisfaction. This was better than just winning. This was them changing their entire game plan because of me.
They'd tried to ignore me, then they'd tried to hack me, and now they were just… paying me. They were literally funding my empire while simultaneously admitting they were scared of it. They'd given up on finding me, on strong-arming me. There were no leads, no digital fingerprints Sunday couldn't scrub. I was a ghost in the machine, and it was driving them crazy.
So, they chose the only route left: they'd decided to try and surf the wave I'd created instead of trying to stop it. They were buying my game, driving my sales numbers even higher, and all so they could maybe, maybe, pick up the crumbs left behind after I was done.
A warm feeling of power spread through my chest. This was control. This was influence. I wasn't just playing the game; I had rewritten the rules, and everyone else was frantically trying to memorize the new edition. They'd learned their lesson early, and the lesson was simple: don't get in Meteor Studio's way. Just try to benefit from the changes it brings. It felt damn good.