The celebration wasn't big.There was no rented hall, no long speeches.Just an improvised table in the office, food bought on the way, and cheap drinks chilling in the sink.
But the atmosphere was different.There was laughter.
Sato arrived with a bag full of yakitori.Mori brought a small cake with the game's logo clumsily drawn on top.Kisaragi, after hesitating for a few seconds, appeared with bottles clearly not meant for a workday.
–"This counts as overtime," – he said, pouring drinks.
No one argued.
Magazines were open on the table.Some underlined.Others with handwritten notes in the margins.The game had been called unusual, brave, calm. Words that didn't usually appear together.
–"I never thought anyone would write so much about something we did," – said Mori.–"Nor that they would understand it," – added Sato.
Kisaragi raised his glass.
–"We're not big," – he said.–"But we're no longer invisible."
They toasted.
The company felt different.Not richer, not bigger, but stronger.It was no longer just a passing place.No longer just survival.It was a studio.
I looked around.Tired people. Normal people.No recognized genius. No famous name.
And yet, they had created something that had reached others.
That hit me harder than I expected.
While they talked, I stayed a little on the sidelines, observing.I thought about the whole process: the clumsy idea, the functional prototype, the necessary cuts, the obsessive adjustments.I thought about the mistakes and what I had learned without realizing it.
I liked it.Not a specific part.Everything.
Thinking about systems. Testing ideas. Failing. Adjusting. Watching something abstract turn into a real experience. Watching someone play and understand without anyone explaining it.
–"What are you thinking about?" – asked Kisaragi.
I thought for a second before answering.
–"That I want to keep doing this," – I said.–"For a long time."
It didn't sound grandiose.It sounded honest.
I didn't want to change the industry.I didn't want to be famous.
I wanted to make fun video games. Games that respected the player. Games like the ones I had played in my previous life: small, different, carefully made.
That was my goal.Simple. Clear. For the first time, mine.
I raised my glass.
–"I want to make games," – I said.–"That people want to finish."
They laughed. They toasted again.
That night, leaving the office, Akihabara was lit as always. Noisy. Alive.
I walked without hurry.
I had been reincarnated without purpose. I had drifted for years.But now, without exaggerated promises or impossible dreams, I had something better.
Something I could repeat.
And as long as there was a new idea, a system to adjust, and someone willing to play,I knew exactly what I wanted to do with my life.